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ROCKHURST 


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MY    MERRY    ROCKHURST" 


JSy  "Bqwcs  &  Bgerton  Castle 

THE    PRIDE   OF  JENNICO 
"IF  YOUTH   BUT  KNEW!" 
THE  SECRET  ORCHARD 
ROSE  OF  THE  WORLD 
THE  STAR-DREAMER 
THE   HOUSE   OF  ROMANCE 
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YOUNG  APRIL 

THE  LIGHT  OF  SCARTHEY 

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Through  the  open  window,  out  of  the  darkness,  gathered  a  heavy 
rumble  of  wheels ;  then  again  uprose  the  call  of  the  bell,  the  cry 
of  the  hoarse  voice:   "Bring  out  your  dead!"         (See p.  293.) 


MY  MERRY  ROCKHURST" 


BEING 

SOME  EPISODES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  VISCOUNT 
ROCKHURST,  A  FRIEND  OF  KING  CHARLES 
THE   SECOND,  AND   AT   ONE  TIME   CON- 
STABLE   OF   HIS    MAJESTY'S    TOWER 
OF   LONDON 


RECOUNTED  BY 


AGNES  &   EGERTON   CASTLE 

AUTHORS  OF 

"THE    PRIDE    OF    JENNICO,"     "'IF   YOUTH   BUT 

KNEW  !  '  "    "  ROSE  OF   THE  WORLD,"   ETC. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1907 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1907, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1907. 


NorfaoDu  $«BS 
S.  Cushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


'"Dp 

Co 

RANDOLPH    HENRY    STEWART 

ELEVENTH    EARL    OF   GALLOWAY 

HEAD   OF  THE  ANCIENT    HOUSE  OF   STEWART 

THIS    STORY    IS    DEDICATED 

WITH   THE 

AUTHORS'   AFFECTIONATE   REGARD 

Sept.  i,  1907. 


2134662 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  King's  Comrade i 

I.     The  State  Crust     . 

3 

II.     Cavalier  and  Capitan 

21 

Farrant  Chace 

43 

I.     Farrant  Chace 

45 

II.     The  Lady  in  the  Snow 

58 

III.     The  Ransom 

64 

IV.     Under  the  Stars     . 

78 

The  Enigma  of  the  Locket 

87 

I.     Little  Satan  . 

89 

II.     Whitehall  Stairs    . 

106 

III.     The  Linnet's  Song 

124 

The  Peacock  Walk  . 

'45 

I.     June  Roses    . 

147 

II.     Fatherly  Wisdom  . 

168 

III.     The  New  French  Pass 

186 

The  King's  Cup. 

197 

I.     Little  Satan  . 

199 

II.     The  Venetian  Glass 

225 

III.     The  Phial  of  Acquetta 

236 

Lady  Chillingburgh's  Last  Card-Party 

251 

I.     Lincoln's  Inn  Fields 

253 

II.     Love's  Reproach    .... 

267 

III.     The  Plague-Cart    .... 

281 

vii 

Mil 


Contents 


Broken  Sanctuary    . 

I.     The  Haven  of  Refuge 


II. 

The  Gold  Whistle 

III. 

Nemesis 

Th 

k  Red  Desolation 

I. 

The  Watchers 

11. 

The  Testament 

III. 

The  Last  Command 

l'AGE 
297 

299 
308 
323 

339 

34i 

3Si 
368 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  Through  the  open  window,  out  of  the  darkness,  gath- 
ered a  heavy  rumble  of  wheels  ;  then  again  uprose 
the  call  of  the  bell,  the  cry  of  the  hoarse  voice : 
'  Bring  out  your  dead  ! ' '      (See  page  293)      Frontispiece 

OPP.    PAGE 

"  The  single  contemptuous  exclamation  fell  like  the  cut 

of  a  whip " 68 

"  She  felt  at  last  that  she  had  power"     .         .         .         .132 


Lionel  took  place  beside  him  and  from  narrowed  lids 
looked  smilingly  at  the  young  man's  happy  counte- 


184 


"The  huddled  figure  in  the  great  chair.  The  face  of 
her  that  had  so  stout  a  heart,  conquered  in  death 
—  but  less  piteous,  less  awful  sight  than  the  living 
face  of  the  French  madam  "     .....     314 

"  Harry  gave  a  deep  groan,  covered  his  face  with  his 

hands,  and  fell  upon  the  bench "     .         .         .         ■     364 


IX 


THE   KING'S    COMRADE 


THE    KING'S    COMRADE 


THE   STATE   CRUST 

The  early  September  night  had  descended  upon 
Bruges,  —  "  City  of  Bridges,"  —  once  the  seat  of  the 
most  luxurious  court  in  Europe,  now  so  far  away, 
fallen  from  its  high  if  not  from  its  wealthy  estate.  The 
life  of  the  little  town,  never  very  active  or  varied 
under  the  Spaniard's  rule,  seemed  this  evening  to 
have  been  swept  into  a  stillness  emphasised  only  by 
an  occasional  footfall  upon  the  cobbles  of  its  winding 
streets,  some  husky  cry  from  a  barge  gliding  ghost- 
like down  a  canal,  or  the  far-away  barking  of  dogs  on 
the  farm  lands  beyond  the  walls.  A  sea  mist  had 
crept  from  the  north,  muffling  even  these  sounds  of 
silence,  rolling  in  thicker  volumes  along  the  many 
sluggard  waters  that  intersect  the  old  Flemish  Mart 
and  bring  prosperity  to  her  comfortable  merchants, 
as  it  were  in  their  sleep.  It  hung  itself  in  loose  wisps 
around  the  carven  towers  of  the  Cathedral,  the  giddy 
heights  of  the  belfry  —  whence,  as  the  hours  slipped 

3 


4  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

on,  deep  bell  voices  answered  clear  bell  voices,  like 
spirits  communing  from  their  heights  across  the  petty- 
lives  below. 

The  corner  house  of  a  row  of  solid  burgher  man- 
sions, flanking  the  canal  on  the  Quai  Vert,  stood 
slightly  apart  with  an  air  of  greater  importance  than 
the  rest,  giving  to  the  street  on  the  one  side  through 
courtyard  and  wrought-iron  gate,  and  on  the  other 
sheer  over  the  water  that  lazily  lipped  the  green, 
slimy  foot  of  its  walls. 

The  second  floor  of  this  house  had  been  the  dwell- 
ing of  my  lord  Viscount  Rockhurst  ever  since  — 
that  is,  some  two  years  before  —  Charles  had  trans- 
ferred to  Bruges  his  penurious  little  court  of  English 
Cavaliers,  exiles  like  himself  since  the  fateful  days 
of  Worcester,  of  Boscobel,  and  Whiteladies. 

In  a  long,  low  room  overlooking  the  canal,  two 
men  sat  together,  one  on  each  side  of  an  open  hearth, 
lost  in  deep  musings.  The  curtains  were  undrawn ; 
one  window  stood  open,  and  ever  and  anon  admitted 
a  wreath  of  the  sea-fog  that  swirled  a  moment  and 
swiftly  fainted  away.  The  only  light  in  the  apart- 
ment was  the  ruddy  glow  of  a  driftwood  fire,  now 
cheerfully  burning,  although  the  acrid  savour  that 
still  hung  in  the  air  betrayed  its  recent  stubbornness 


The  King's  Comrade  5 

and  explained  the  gaping  casement.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  two  lacked  the  energy  either  to  shut  out  the  gloom 
of  night  or  call  for  the  enlivening  of  candle  or  lamp ; 
as  if  the  paralysing,  sodden  weight  lying  upon  the 
world  without  had  laid  hold  of  their  souls. 

The  blue-tipped  flames  that  leaped  round  the  logs 
flung  now  one  brooding  countenance  in  relief,  now 
the  other.  Upon  the  right,  the  dark  head  of  the 
exiled  King  of  England,  still  in  the  very  ripeness  of 
young  manhood,  would  be  sketched  against  the 
leather-backed  chair  upon  which  it  wearily  rested. 
But  not  all  the  geniality  of  the  blaze  could  give 
sanguine  hue  or  gleam  of  cheerfulness  to  the  sallow, 
harsh  visage.  In  utter  dejection,  the  long  figure  — 
"a  tall  man,  above  two  yards  high,"  so  had  run  the 
description  on  the  Council  of  State's  Warrant  for 
the  apprehension  of  Charles  Stuart  —  extended 
itself  as  if  unconsciously  to  the  warmth,  chin  sunk 
upon  breast,  eyes  fixed  and  moody  under  drooping 
lids  and  singularly  bushy  eyebrows. 

Upon  the  left,  the  fitful  tongues  of  flame  revealed 
a  face  of  equal  melancholy  if  of  greater  energy  and 
comeliness.  My  lord  Rockhurst  sat  forward,  sup- 
porting his  cheek  upon  his  hand.  His  was  a  type  such 
as  Sir  Anthony  Van  Dyck,  some  few  years  before, 
had  loved  to  fix  in  his  incomparable  line  and  colour. 


6  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Like  his  King  he  was  dark,  but  with  chestnut  lights 
and  a  crispness  in  the  waves  of  hair  falling  upon  his 
shoulders  absent  from  the  heavy  locks  of  Charles. 
Against  the  glow  his  profile  stood  out,  fine-cut  and 
pale-hued  as  a  carving  in  ivory.  Older  by  some 
years,  there  yet  was  a  youthful  air  of  alertness  about 
his  whole  personality,  even  as  he  sat  motionless,  that 
was  conspicuously  lacking  in  the  apathetic  figure 
facing  him. 

Ever  and  anon  his  eyes,  hawk-like  in  their  keenness 
and  the  quick  dilation  of  their  pupils,  would  shift 
from  the  wistful  contemplation  of  fire-pictures  to  the 
royal  countenance,  where  they  would  rest  in  scrutiny, 
and,  it  seemed,  in  deepening  concern.  Ever  and 
anon,  upon  the  withdrawal  of  this  gaze,  a  slight  sigh 
escaped  him. 

Suddenly  Charles  gathered  his  long  limbs  into  a 
more  erect  posture,  and  jerking  his  head  toward  his 
companion :  — 

"And  there  you  go  again,  Harry,  with  your  heigh- 
ho 's.  I  fled  but  an  hour  ago  from  the  long  faces  of 
my  lord  Gerard,  of  Erskine,  and  Armorer—" 

"My  lord  Gerard,  gentleman  of  the  Bedchamber, 
Messieurs  Erskine  and  Armorer,  Cupbearer  and 
Comptroller  of  the  Household  — "  murmured  Rock- 
hurst, with  a  humorous  twist  of  bitterness. 


The  King's  Comrade  7 

"Gentleman  of  the  Straw  Pallet  and  Wooden 
Stool  .  .  .  Comptroller  of  the  State  Crusts  !  As  for 
Mr.  Cupbearer  Erskine,  he  had  to-day  to  pledge 
in  pawn  the  last  silver  pot  for  fear  of  arrest.  .  .  . 
Marry !  I  took  refuge  with  you,  who  at  least,  God 
be  praised,  never  weary  me  with  talk  of  debts. 
Yet  even  you  must  need  treat  me  to  sighs !  Upon 
my  soul,  a  man  Would  no  more  cheerful  company  than 
that  of  this  Court  of  mine  to  put  him  in  fit  frame  for 
the  monastery —  How  say  you,  Harry?  Is't  per- 
chance the  one  issue  left  us?  There  is  Royal,  aye, 
Imperial  example  for  it.  Do  you  see  in  me  proper 
material  for  a  Trappist  ?  '  Brother,  we  must  die '  — 
Nay,  'Brother,  we  are  dead'  would  better  suit  our 
case !  No  Cistercian  wall  could  hold  a  drearier 
prospect  than  this  dismal  town  of  Bruges." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  dragged  himself  with 
slouching  steps  to  the  window  :  — 

"Faugh!  the  smell  of  those  dead  waters  —  the 
stillness  of  them !  .  .  .  I  vow  I  can  hear  the 
drip  from  yonder  leafless  poplars  on  the  bank ! 
Aye,  Charles  is  dead,  and  Bruges  is  his  tomb  !  Tis 
no  lofty  withdrawal  from  life,  like  his  great  name- 
sake's, but  a  very  sordid  end,  my  good  Harry. 
Death  of  credit,  death  of  hopes.  .  .  .  Here  we 
are,  in  a  town  of  merchants,  a  community  of  buyers 


8  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

and  sellers,  and  we  have  not  wherewithal  to  pay  for 
a  supper,  nay,  not  even  for  a  bottle  to  help  us  forget 
that  we  have  not  supped." 

The  other  man  had  risen  in  his  turn  and  ap- 
proached the  window. 

"Why,  now !"  he  cried,  and  his  voice  in  its  brisk, 
manly  tone  formed  a  strong  contrast  to  the  other's 
melancholy  drawl,  "  'tis  surely  but  this  pestilent  fog 
keeps  Mr.  Secretary  Hyde  and  my  lord  of  Bristol 
from  rejoining  us  with  the  promised  supplies ;  faith, 
and  who  knows?  with  news  that  may  cheer  our 
hearts,  my  liege." 

"Harry,"  said  the  other,  wheeling  round  and  facing 
him  with  something  of  humour  in  his  rueful  visage, 
"this  my  liege  of  yours  to  my  empty  stomach  savours 
most  damnably  of  mockery.  For  love  of  Heaven, 
if  thou  wouldst  help  me  to  bear  it,  remember 
we  are  but  comrades  in  bad  straits  together. 
Here  is  poor  Charles,  and  there  stands  poor 
Harry.  Liege?  Majesty?  Psho !  Our  own 
country  will  have  none  of  us;  our  friends  abroad 
have  failed  us;  the  wise  burghers  of  this  town  will 
no  longer  recognise  the  value  of  a  signature  of  mine 
—  and  as  for  thee  ..." 

"My  last  remittance,  overdue  this  month;  inter- 
cepted, I  make  no  doubt,  by  Old  Noll's  — "     Rock- 


The  King's  Comrade  9 

hurst  made  a  gesture  toward  the  casement :  yonder 
to  the  north,  but  a  score  of  miles,  perhaps,  Cromwell's 
well-found  ships  were  cruising,  as  he  knew,  close  in 
shore.  "Well,  better  luck  next  venture!"  he  went 
on.  "Our  friends  at  home  —  the  one  certainty  in 
these  uncertain  times  —  do  not  forget  us.  Sighs! 
Did  I  sigh  ?  'Twas  at  the  thought  that,  though  there 
is  still  firewood  in  the  house  you  deigned  to  honour 
to-night,  there  is  ne'er  a  bottle  left  for  your  Majesty's 
entertainment  —  and  ..." 

In  eloquent  conclusion,  the  Cavalier  pulled  out  a 
silk  purse  and  crushed  its  emptiness  between  his 
palms  with  a  smile,  which  the  anxious  gaze  he  fixed 
upon  his  visitor  markedly  belied. 

"My  last  angel  gone  to  the  surly  porter  of  Myn- 
heer Tratsaert's  house  of  business  this  afternoon. 
I  had  better  have  kept  it  for  our  supper.  But  who 
would  have  thought  that  Mr.  Secretary  Hyde,  Coun- 
cillor, Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  would  allow 
such  lack  ..." 

"And  who  would  have  thought  who  knew  the 
fortunes  of  Charles  that  he  was  ever  destined  to  do 
aught  but  lack?  The  fox  hath  his  hole  and  the 
birds  of  the  air  have  nests  ...  but  Charles  shall 
not  even  have  a  stone  whereon  to  lay  his  head. 
Aye  —  you  may  well  stare,  Harry,  to  hear  me  quote 


io  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Scripture.  The  waters  are  at  lowest  ebb  with  us, 
good  friend ;  and  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  in  our 
extremity,  we  turn  to  the  texts." 

A  moment  the  elder  man  stood  gazing  through  the 
gloom  which  in  the  falling  firelight  was  gathering 
ever  more  closely  about  them,  at  the  face  of  his 
royal  master.  Then  he  said  in  a  low  voice  which 
more  concealed  than  betrayed,  emotion :  — 

"When  the  tide  is  at  lowest,  'tis  but  nearest  to  the 
turn." 

"Nay,"  broke  from  the  other  with  ever-increasing 
bitterness,  "if  that  is  where  thy  hopes  lie,  I  am  sorry 
for  thee.  There  is  no  turn  in  such  fortunes  as  mine, 
but  an  ever-sapping  drain.  Why,  there  is  not  a 
kinsman  can  afford  to  show  countenance  to  such  a 
falling  house,  not  a  lady  in  Europe  who  has  heart 
enough  to  risk  her  fate  with  my  hopes.  Nay,  there's 
not  even  a  fat  tallow  merchant  of  Flanders  who 
thinks  it  worth  his  while  to  risk  a.  present  guilder 
for  future  favour.  You  would  do  better,  my 
lord,  to  go  seek  your  peace  with  the  powers  that  be 

—  and   for  this   you    have   recent    high   precedent 

—  rather  than  remain  to  share  the  last  ruin  of  our 
line." 

"Sire,"  exclaimed  Rockhurst  then,  "how  shall 
my  house  stand  if  yours  fall?     How  shall  my  body 


The  King's  Comrade  n 

keep  health  if  yours  ail  ?  Where  is  my  country  but 
with  you,  or  my  hopes  but  with  yours?" 

Charles  answered  the  steady  tones  with  an  attempt 
at  lightness  which  failed  to  cover  completely  a  certain 
tender  break  in  his  own  voice. 

"  The  more  fool  you,  then,  Harry !  Easy  terms 
would  be  made  to  the  Viscount  Rockhurst.  He 
could  dwell  on  his  fat  lands  once  more  in  power  and 
opulence  instead  of  wasting  them  in  fines  —  he  could 
bring  up  his  heir  in  leisure ;  nay,  he  could  wed  him  a 
new  wife  and  beget  him  a  fresh  family,  all  in  merry 
England." 

"My  son,"  answered  the  other,  "is  in  good  hands 
—  and  my  sister  in  the  farm-house  where  she  hath 
refuge  brings  him  up  even  in  such  wise  as  I  should 
myself.  As  for  a  new  wife,  poor  Charles," —  his  lips 
broke  into  a  smile  as  they  spoke  the  words,  —  "believe 
your  poor  Harry,  he  is  as  little  likely  to  seek  one  as  he 
is  to  seek  a  new  master  —  But,  Heaven  forgive  me!" 
he  went  on  with  brisk  change  of  tone,  "this  outer  fog 
seems  to  have  befogged  my  inner  wits.  The  house 
can  at  least  afford  us  lights.  Nay,  I  will  close  the 
casement  upon  the  dull,  wet  world.  Another  log 
or  two  on  the  hearth  !"  He  added  action  to  speech, 
and  a  cheerful  roar  and  blaze  answered  the  minis- 
tration.    "The  curtain  across  the  casement — so! 


is  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

Now  we  were  in  worse  straits  after  Worcester. 
Have  you  forgotten  how  we  stole  a  sheep  and  killed 
it  and  brought  you  the  reeking  leg,  and  you  yourself 
cut  it  into  collops  and  set  them  in  the  pan  ?  Good 
lack  -  -  how  tough  they  were  !  Yet  'twas  a  merry 
supper.  Back  to  your  chair  by  the  warmth,  my 
dearest  Sire.  An  hour's  patience,  and  it  will  go  ill 
with  me  if  I  serve  you  not  a  meal  —  and  wine  to  it  — 
fit  wine  for  the  pledge  it  shall  wash." 

"Aye,  and  how  will  you  manage  that,  my  merry 
Rockhurst?"  asked  Charles  Stuart  listlessly,  as  he 
suffered  himself  to  be  led  back  to  his  chair. 

"Why,  by  a  fight  or  a  kiss,  a  laugh  or  a  lie!" 
cried  his  companion  gaily.  "Since  the  French 
king  has  thrust  us  out  to  please  England's  Protector ; 
since  the  Don  neglects  to  maintain  us  in  proper 
state,  why  then,  the  Don's  land  must  be  made  to 
provide !"  He  took  up  his  sword  which  lay  on  the 
table  to  his  hand  and  buckled  it  round  his  lean 
figure  as  he  spoke.  "A  joke  will  bring  a  man  far 
along  sometimes;  or,  if  not,  then  a  prodigious  bit 
of  deceit.  I  am  ready,  too,  to  kiss,  my  good  liege, 
or  kill.  Is  not  all  fair  in  love  and  war?  And 
are  we  not  at  war  still,  aye,  and  with  the  whole 
world  too,  —  and  as  much  in  love  as  out  of  it  ? 
There  are  women  in  this  Flemish  town,  and  they 


The  King's  Comrade  13 

have  hearts  for  a  man,  or  how  could  even  this 
Bruges  subsist?" 

He  stood  in  the  full  light  of  the  racing  hearth- 
flame,  the  points  of  the  thin  mustache  quivering 
with  his  smile.  So  handsome,  although  worn  with 
anxiety  and  privation;  so  tall  and  proper  a  man, 
so  dashing  a  presence  in  such  tattered  and  faded 
garb. 

Charles  turned  his  dark  eyes  slowly  on  his 
friend. 

"Art  a  likely  figure,  in  verity,  to  go  courting  the 
prude  burgher's  daughter!"  he  drawled  upon  a 
yawn.  "Aye,  well  — off  with  thee,  then,  and  I'll 
have  a  nap  to  pass  the  weary  time.  Qui  dort  dine, 
as  the  French  say  —  though  my  sleek  cousin  of 
France  would  scarce  put  up  with  the  alternative !  — 
But  mind  how  you  play,  my  lord,  with  your  kisses 
and  your  blade  —  I  can  ill  afford  to  lose  my  last 
friend!" 

Rockhurst  answered  but  by  a  look  of  affectionate 
devotion.     Then,  after  a  little  pause  :  — 

"I  will  send  Chitterley  with  candles,"  said  he, 
"and  bid  him  lay  the  table  against  my  return." 

Upon  which,  he  made  as  low  a  bow  toward  the 
languid  figure  as  if  the  exile  sat  in  state  upon  his 
throne,  and  withdrew  from  the  room. 


14  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

In  the  entrance-hall,  dimly  lit  by  a  tallow  candle 
thrust  in  an  iron  sconce,  he  paused,  and  an  air  of 
concentration  succeeded  the  spurt  of  enforced  gaiety. 

Charles  had  indeed  summed  up  the  situation. 
The  English  Royalists,  bankrupt  of  credit,  bank- 
rupt at  last  of  hope,  the  King  himself  reduced  to 
pledge  his  orders,  even  his  favourite  silver-hilt 
sword,  the  royal  dinner  "dwindled  to  one  dish"; 
withal  the  taste  of  wine  like  to  some  receding  memory  ! 
It  would  require  an  inspiration  of  audacity  this 
evening  to  provide  the  rashly  promised  guerdon. 
But  Rockhurst  had  a  soul  to  which  emergency  was 
a  sure  spur.  He  wasted  no  further  time  upon  re- 
flection, since  reflection  served  but  to  show  ever  more 
sternly  that  in  this  night's  foray  he  must  suffer  chance 
and  his  own  boldness  to  guide  him.  Going  to  the 
door  of  the  servants'  quarters,  he  called  for  the 
French  factotum  —  a  clever  rascal,  cook,  valet, 
groom,  —  who,  with  his  faithful  English  attendant, 
represented  the  household  of  the  whilom  sumptuous 
Lord  Viscount. 

"Marcelin!" 

"Monseigneur?"  The  word  rang  back  in  brisk 
interrogation  from  the  underground  kitchen. 

"Get  thee  a  lantern  and  attend  me.  We  go 
foraging,  you  understand?" 


The  King's  Comrade  15 

"Oh,  yes,  monseigneur  ! "  There  was  something 
of  a  joyous  ring  in  the  prompt  answer. 

"Chitterley!" 

"Yes,  my  lord!" 

"His  Majesty  himself  is  with  us  to-night !  Take 
up  candles  and  lay  the  supper  table  — " 

"Yes  —  my  lord."  The  quavering  response  was 
given  in  tones  of  doubt  and  wonder. 

Rockhurst  adjusted  his  cloak,  —  a  garment  more 
weather-stained  and  damaged  even  than  the  suit 
it  covered, — flung  upon  his  head  the  battered  beaver 
with  its  derision  of  a  Cavalier  plume,  and  was  un- 
locking the  door  when  Marcelin  emerged. 

"I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  bring  a  basket, 
monseigneur,"  said  the  man,  casting  the  object 
(which  was  of  bloated  dimensions)  on  the  floor  whilst 
he  settled  his  lantern  to  better  trim.  "Foraging ?  — 
Good  news,  my  faith,  for  it's  a  weary  time  since  we 
have  had  but  Poor- John  or  a  sandhill  rabbit  to  our 
stringy  cabbage !  Monseigneur  has  his  plan,  no 
doubt?" 

"None  as  yet,"  said  Rockhurst.  "But,  at 
whatever  cost,  Marcelin,  we  return  not  here  empty- 
handed." 

"As  soon  die  of  a  knock  on  the  head  as  of 
famine,"    said    the    Frenchman    lightly.     "Milord 


1 6  "  My  Merry  Rock  hurst  " 

hardly  conceives  with  what  joy  I  am  of  his  enter- 
prise. I  would  follow  milord  at  all  times,  but  to- 
night there  is  hardly  a  crime  I  do  not  feel  capable  of 
after  these  days  of  stock-fish  and  clear  water." 

The  strokes  of  nine  were  falling  slow  and  grave 
from  the  Cathedral  tower,  somewhere  high  above 
the  fog,  as  they  turned  into  the  street.  All  Bruges, 
wrapped  in  her  blanket  of  mist,  lay  to  their  will :  a 
town  asleep,  or  soon  to  be,  for  your  Fleming  is  a 
creature  of  early  hours. 

The  hungry  Cavalier  had  instinctively  shaped  his 
course  through  the  High  Street  toward  the  Grande 
Place,  in  or  about  which  purlieus  lay  the  few  taverns 
that  remained  open  during  night  hours  —  dismal 
holes  enough,  which  brought  sighing  remembrance 
of  jovial  London  meetings.  But  no  hostelry  good 
or  vile  is  a  place  of  promise  to  him  who,  in  the  local 
parlance,  "lodge  but  the  Devil  in  his  purse."  And 
much  to  Marcelin's  disappointment  his  lordship 
passed  pensively  on  to  outlying  districts.  There  was, 
as  he  had  admitted,  as  yet  no  definite  plan  in  his 
mind ;  but  he  sought  those  quarters  of  the  town  where 
the  evening  fare  was  likely  to  be  most  succulent. 
Was  he  not  to  cater  for  a  king? 

With  one  or  two  of  the  great  houses  which  rose 
on  the  quay  of  the  Augustines,  isolated  from  each 


The  King's  Comrade  17 

other  by  the  length  of  high-walled  gardens,  he  had 
had  in  earlier  and  slightly  more  prosperous  days 
of  exile  a  passing  acquaintance.  Had  a  forgotten 
shutter,  an  undrawn  curtain,  but  given  him  a  glimpse 
of  some  pleasantly  lighted  family  repast,  he  would 
have  made  bold  to  ply  knocker  and  bell  and  demand 
a  loan,  trusting  to  the  hour  of  mellow  conviviality 
and  his  own  winning  address.  But  not  even  a  ray 
was  suffered  this  night  to  send  its  cheerful  message 
into  the  street  from  those  carefully  barred  balconies 
and  windows.  The  burgher  filled  himself  from  his 
good  fleshpots  —  the  English  exile  or  Spanish  soldier 
might  roam,  ragged  and  empty,  in  the  cold. 

"Has  monseigneur  any  definite  purpose  in  making 
his  promenade  through  the  fog,  which  —  saving 
monseigneur's  respect  —  is  as  searching  as  the 
devil?  If  I  might  venture  to  suggest,"  murmured 
Marcelin  at  last,  in  tones  of  apologetic  weariness, 
drawing  close  to  Rockhurst's  elbow,  "if  monsei- 
gneur would  visit  the  Three  Flags  tavern,  or  the  Cel- 
lar at  the  Sluys  Gate,  he  might  perhaps  deign  to  win 
a  few  pistoles  from  some  Spanish  coronel  or  some 
French  gentleman  prisoner  on  parole.     Then — " 

"Marcelin,"  interrupted  Rockhurst,  "the  lining 
of  our  purse  admits  of  no  such  suggestion,  however 
otherwise  sagacious.     Do  not  attempt  to  interfere 


18  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

with  the  guidance  of  fate.  The  night  is  foggy,  'tis 
true;  natheless  is  fog  more  substantial  to  take  into 
your  empty  carcass  than  mere  airs.  These  houses 
do  not  present  a  hospitable  front,  yet  each  one  holds 
gold  both  in  purse  and  in  flagon.  The  question  is 
how  to  get  it.  That  question  is  fate's  business  to 
solve  for  us.     March." 

He  swung  into  as  quick  a  pace  as  the  uncertain 
gloom  and  the  rough  pavement  permitted ;  and,  as 
if  his  servant's  words  had  started  it  in  his  memory, 
began  to  sing,  not  loudly,  but  in  a  voice  of  some 
sweetness,  the  air  of  a  swaggering  popular  Spanish 
song  that  was  much  on  the  lips,  this  autumn,  of  Don 
John's  soldiery. 

Hardly  had  he  reached  the  second  stave  when, 
overhead,  a  window  guarded  with  ornamental  bowed 
iron  grille- work  was  cautiously  opened,  and  a  woman's 
voice  took  up  the  refrain  as  gently  as  a  swallow 
twitters. 

Rockhurst  instantly  halted,  and  doffing  his  hat 
with  gallant  alertness,  glanced  up  at  the  square  of 
faint  light,  against  which  a  woman's  head,  leaning 
forward  behind  the  curving  bars,  was  just  visible. 

"Hist  —  "   The  warning  sound  dropped  sibilantly. 

"Hist!"  promptly  responded  Rockhurst,  ready 
for  all  emergency. 


The  King's  Comrade  19 

Then  through  the  bars  a  hand  fluttered  a  second. 

"La  Have  del  jardin"  breathed  the  timid  tones, 
in  a  Spanish  which  even  his  own  foreign  ear  recog- 
nised as  more  Flemish  than  Castilian.  Upon  which 
something  fell  with  a  muffled  clang  at  his  feet :  the 
key  of  the  garden  door. 

"My  soul  .  .  .!"  responded  Rockhurst  in  his 
most  ardent  whisper. 

His  Spanish  did  not  go  very  far;  but  he  had  at 
least  that  nodding  acquaintance  with  it  which  resi- 
dence in  Flanders  rendered  necessary  to  a  Cavalier. 
Fortunately,  more  was  not  required  of  him ;  for  the 
house  wall  grew  blank  again  with  the  closing  window. 

But  fate  had  pointed  her  finger. 

Stooping,  he  groped  for  the  key.  It  was  wrapped 
in  a  fine  kerchief  which  had  a  fragrance  of  angelic 
water,  and  he  sniffed  with  amused  anticipation  ere 
he  thrust  it  in  his  breast.  He  was  weighing  the  heavy 
key  in  his  hand  as  Marcelin  crept  up  to  him  again. 

"If  monseigneur  had  only  deigned  to  inform  me 
that  it  was  a  rendezvous  .  .  . !"  he  thought  plain- 
tively. "Here  am  I  very  foolish,  with  my  basket 
instead  of  good  cutlass  to  keep  watch  over  his 
bonne  fortune  /" 

The  honest  fellow's  head  was  in  a  complete  whirl. 
That  milord  should  abandon  the  King  for  the  sake 


20  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

of  a  lady  was  milord  ail  over,  it  was  true ;  neverthe- 
less an  astounding  proceeding,  and  milord's  manner 
of  conducting  the  affair  confusing  in  the  extreme. 
But  his  master's  next  words  brought  illumination :  — 

"Look  you  now,  Marcelin,  did  I  not  tell  you 
Fortune  would  solve  the  riddle?  Has  she  not 
brought  us  to  the  most  opulent  house  of  the  whole 
row?  And  if  it  were  not  for  the  fog,  her  servant, 
would  that  sweet  lady  have  mistaken  me  for  her 
Spanish  lover  ?  Come,  now,  the  garden  door  must 
lurk  in  this  wall  to  the  right." 

He  moved  on  a  few  steps,  running  his  hand  along 
the  brick.     Marcelin  followed,  lost  in  admiration. 

"Eh,  by  the  little  dog  of  St.  Roch!"  he  cried, 
"does  monseigneur  intend  — ?" 

"Certes,  my  friend,  and  to  make  the  lady  glad 
of  the  exchange,"  answered  the  Cavalier  in  his  quiet 
voice.  "Ha,  here  is  the  nail-studded  wood:  here 
with  your  lantern." 


II 


CAVALIER   AND    CAPITAN 


Even  as  he  spoke,  bending  to  look  for  the  lock, 
there  came  along  the  cobbles  of  the  lane  a  clink  of 
spurs  that  rang  to  the  rhythm  of  a  martial  tread. 
And  presently  a  rather  husky  voice  was  uplifted  into 
that  same  conquering  lilt— the  tune  of  the  marching 
Spaniards  —  that  had  come  to  Rockhurst's  mind  a 
few  moments  before. 

Lilt  and  step  fell  into  sudden  silence  at  the  corner 
of  the  house.  The  newcomer  had  halted,  apparently 
struck  by  the  sight  of  the  two  figures,  shadowed  as 
they  were  through  the  vapours  at  the  garden  gate  by 
the  lantern  light.  Rockhurst's  head  as  he  bent  over 
the  lock  was  lit  up  fantastically.  The  bold  features, 
the  thin,  upturned  mustache,  quivering  now  with  a 
mischievous  smile,  the  peaked  beard,  black  as 
raven's  wing,  and  the  hat  with  its  challenging  tilt 
and  its  incredible  plume,  all  seemed  to  proclaim 
in  him  one  of  Don  John's  own  rakish  soldiers  of 
fortune. 

21 


22  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

The  key  turned  in  the  lock.  The  next  instant  the 
Capitan  (the  red  plume  sweeping  over  the  hat- 
brim  proclaimed  his  rank)  sprang  forward  with  a 
growl  like  an  angry  dog's  and  plucked  at  Rockhurst 's 
cloak,  even  as  the  latter  was  pushing  the  door  open. 

"Hey,  there,  comrade!"  he  whispered,  "you  are 
caught  at  it  —  breaking  into  an  honest  burgher's 
house!     Out  of  this,  sharp!" 

"Breaking  in,  camarado?  Why,  not  at  all," 
responded  Rockhurst,  in  his  own  Franco-Spanish. 
"Merely  entering  where  I  am  expected,  and  my 
servant  there  holds  the  light.  —  Come  in,  Marcelin." 

He  stepped  lightly  through  the  doorway,  leaving 
his  cloak  in  the  other's  grasp.  His  voice,  in  the 
undertone  they  both  deemed  prudent  to  adopt,  yet 
conveyed  the  perfection  of  mockery. 

"Expected?  Cuerpo  de  Dios!"  said  the  gallant, 
and  fell  back  a  step,  blank  surprise  robbing  him, 
it  seemed,  of  all  other  emotion  for  the  present. 

"Even  so,  Sefior  Caballero,  witness  this  key. 
(Up  with  the  light,  Marcelin,  that  the  sefior  may  see 
for  himself.)  Witness  the  token."  He  brandished 
first  the  key,  then  the  scented  handkerchief,  with 
gay  gesture.  "May  I  trouble  you  for  my  cloak? 
Then  I  shall  wish  you  good  night." 

Marcelin,  grinning,   stood  between  the  two,  his 


The  King's  Comrade  23 

back  against  the  door-post,  the  basket  on  his  arm, 
holding  up  the  lantern.  The  light  fell  full  on  the 
Spaniard's  visage :  young  and  handsome  enough  it 
was,  though  now  livid  with  fury.  Still  speechless,  he 
seemed  rooted  to  the  spot,  his  black  eyes  starting,  the 
wings  of  his  nostrils  distended  upon  his  angry  breath. 

Rockhurst  waited  a  second  or  two,  then  with  a 
laugh :  — 

"  Marcelin,"  he  ordered,  "relieve  the  noble  Capitan 
of  my  cloak:    he  will  understand  my  impatience." 

The  little  valet,  shifting  the  lantern  into  the  basket, 
put  out  his  hand  obediently  for  the  ragged  garment 
in  question.  But  here  the  newcomer,  suddenly 
leaping  into  active  ferocity,  made  a  headlong  rush 
into  the  garden,  and  had  not  Rockhurst  by  a  dex- 
terous step  aside  avoided  the  onslaught,  would  have 
seized  his  rival  by  the  throat. 

"  Come  in,  Marcelin,  and  shut  the  door,"  came  the 
mocking  voice  from  the  darkness.  "Let  us  unravel 
this  little  question  of  precedence  in  snug  privacy. 
We  shall  want  your  lantern,  my  friend." 

The  garden,  tree-shaded  and  high-walled  on  all 
sides,  seemed  to  shut  in  and  concentrate  the  night's 
gloom.  The  sound  of  two  swords,  hissing  out  of 
the  scabbards  even  as  the  words  were  spoken,  was 
sinister  in  the  darkness. 


24  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Rockhurst  quickly  drew  once  more  within  the 
faint  circle  of  light.  The  lantern  held  aloft  (now 
in  a  somewhat  nervous  clutch,  it  must  be  said) 
revealed  the  silent  laughter  that  rippled  over  his 
features  like  wild-fire,  as  he  flung  himself  into  an 
extravagantly  truculent  fencing  attitude.  The  Span- 
iard, stamping  on  the  sod  like  a  bull  enraged,  filled 
the  air  with  guttural  execrations,  while  he  swung 
Rockhurst 's  cloak  in  frantic  circles  over  his  left  arm. 
His  rapier  gleamed  one  moment  aloft,  then,  low- 
aimed,  shot  forward  like  a  flash. 

Marcelin  involuntarily  shouted  warning;  but 
Rockhurst,  with  the  coolness  of  the  experienced  fight- 
ing man,  had  already  slipped  from  the  stroke  of  death 
as  airily  as  the  practised  dancer  to  the  turn  of  the 
tune.  On  the  instant  he  had  plucked  his  dilapidated 
beaver  from  his  head,  and  beating  with  it  the  menac- 
ing blade  widely  aside,  brought  down  his  own  steel 
whistling  upon  the  wrist  that  palely  showed  behind 
the  gilt  Toledo  hilt. 

With  a  muffled  scream  of  rage  and  pain  the  Span- 
iard dropped  his  weapon,  fell  on  one  knee,  feverishly 
shaking  the  cloak  off  his  arm  to  nurse  his  helpless, 
bleeding  hand. 

Rockhurst's  skill,  guided  by  luck,  had  inflicted, 
at  the  first  pass,  one  of  those  disabling  wounds  that 


The  King's  Comrade  25 

cause  pangs  singularly  disproportionate  to  their  seri- 
ousness. He  sheathed  his  rapier  with  much  delib- 
eration, picked  up  his  cloak  and  flung  it  around  him 
as  it  were  a  royal  mantle,  smoothed  out  the  feather 
in  his  hat, — not  improved  in  any  way  by  its  buckler 
service, — and  set  it  back  on  his  head  at  the  right 
jaunty  cock.  He  was  about  to  pass  the  Capitan  with 
a  taunting  buenas  noches,  when  some  impulse  of 
careless  good  nature  bade  him  change  his  mind. 

"Nay,  I  am  sure,"  he  said,  "that  our  fair  one 
within  will  support  my  invitation  when  I  bid  you 
to  sup  and  converse.  In  your  own  Castilian  phrase : 
Will  you  not  enter  into  this  your  house  ?  —  Marcelin, 
support  the  Sefior  Capitan ;  he  waxes,  methinks, 
somewhat  weakly." 

And,  upon  a  further  spur  of  magnanimity,  he 
himself  returned  the  fallen  sword  to  the  defeated 
man's  side. 

Faint  chinks  of  light  cut  upon  the  darkness  showed 
them  where  the  house  door  stood,  slightly  ajar, 
upon  the  garden.  And  as  the  trio  approached, 
the  feet  of  the  wounded  man  shuffling  along  the 
tiled  path,  the  soft  voice  called  out,  in  its  broken 
Spanish :  — 

"Sefior  Ramon,  is  that  you?  —  For  the  love  of 
God,  what  has  happened?" 


26  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

He  who  was  just  adjured  answered  only  by  a 
groan;  whereupon  Rockhurst,  stepping  up  to  the 
chink  and  speaking  in  low  but  cheerful  tones,  ad- 
dressed the  invisible  lady  in  French  this  time:  — 

"Dear  madam,  if  you  will  but  admit  us,  you  shall 
have  explanation.  The  Capitan  Ramon  has  met 
with  a  slight  misadventure,  and  needs  but  your 
smile,  a  bandage,  and  a  tass  of  brandwein  to  restore 
him." 

"Ah,  heavens!"  answered  she,  and  the  door  was 
flung  wide  open.  A  woman,  evidently  of  the  rich 
burgher  class,  young,  and  very  fair  of  colouring, 
stood  in  the  passage,  a  small  lamp  in  her  hand.  Her 
face  blanched  as  the  half-fainting  man  was  assisted 
across  the  threshold,  and  she  caught  her  free  hand 
to  her  lips  as  if  to  stifle  a  rising  scream.  It  was 
evident,  thought  Rockhurst,  that  there  were  those 
in  the  house  whom  she  feared  to  disturb. 

The  danger  of  her  own  situation  weighing  appar- 
ently upon  her  even  more  than  the  condition  of  her 
lover,  she  gathered  herself  quickly  together ;  and,  im- 
ploring caution  by  gesture,  ran  light-footed  up  the  pas- 
sage, beckoning  as  she  went.  She  thus  inducted  the 
whole  party  into  a  panelled  room,  which  seemed  built 
at  the  most  distant  end  from  the  front.  It  was  gaily 
lighted  by  a  hanging  crown  of  candles,  warmed  by  a 


The  King's  Comrade  27 

stove,  furnished  in  brown  oak,  with  dressers  and 
shelves  upon  which  gleamed  much  pewter  and  brass 
of  high  polish.  Upon  a  table  covered  with  fair  red 
and  white  napery  stood  revealed  an  unmistakable 
supper  for  two,  with  abundance  of  good  things,  at 
sight  of  which  Rockhurst  and  Marcelin  exchanged 
a  deep  glance  of  meaning. 

As  she  closed  the  door  upon  their  entrance,  the 
young  woman  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief,  exclaim- 
ing in  her  Flemish  French :  — 

"Here  we  are  safe  !  —  In  the  passage,"  she  added, 
turning  to  Rockhurst,  "the  servants,  sir,  might  have 
heard  us  from  their  quarters." 

The  simple  air  with  which  she  spoke,  the  round 
blue  eyes  she  fixed  upon  them,  the  practical  candour 
with  which  she  excused  herself  for  a  seeming  want 
of  hospitality  before  attending  to  her  groaning 
lover,  gave  Rockhurst  swift  insight  into  the  nature 
they  had  to  deal  with.  Here  was  a  matter-of-fact 
young  vrow,  not  even  pretty,  —  at  least  to  a  fas- 
tidious English  eye  — ■  for,  with  her  little  moon 
face  and  her  hemp-coloured  hair,  she  might  have 
emerged  from  a  canvas  by  Master  Gerard  Dow, 
yet  with  much  that  was  agreeable  about  her  manner, 
about  the  gentle  irregularity  of  her  features,  but 
above  all  about  her  engaging  youthfulness.     Here 


28  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

certainly  was  none  of  your  vaporous  dames.  She 
showed  no  undue  emotion  at  sight  of  the  Spaniard's 
blcod-dyed  hands;  but,  as  she  turned  to  help  him, 
was  neatly  careful  to  twitch  her  dress  from  too  close 
proximity  and  to  push  her  lace  cuffs  higher  up  her 
plump  arms. 

After  examining  the  gash  with  crooning  sympa- 
thy, she  poured  water  into  one  of  the  bright  pewter 
dishes  that  stood  on  the  sideboard ;  then,  cutting 
a  napkin  into  strips  with  the  carving-knife,  ad- 
dressed the  Cavalier :  — 

"If  you  will  kindly  give  him  the  brandwein  —  it 
is  in  the  square  glass  bottle  beside  the  pasty." 

Rockhurst  started  from  his  amused  contempla- 
tion and  turned  to  the  damaged  gallant.  This 
latter,  installed  by  Marcelin  with  mock  solicitude 
in  a  chair  near  the  table,  sat  collapsed,  with  his  head 
on  his  breast.  Rockhurst  conceived  a  shrewd 
suspicion  that  the  Capitan's  prolonged  weakness 
was  more  feint  than  reality,  an  opinion  apparently 
shared  by  the  servant,  whose  face  was  wreathed  in 
satiric  smiles.  And  when  the  wounded  man  pet- 
tishly pushed  aside  the  brandy  and  demanded  del 
vino,  the  doubt  became  certainty. 

"Wine,  Marcelin,"  ordered  the  Cavalier  briefly, 
as  one  in  his  own  house. 


The  King's  Comrade  29 

After  having  drained  a  rummer  of  Rhenish,  the 
Capitan  recovered  sufficiently  to  roll  his  head  toward 
his  lady  as  she  knelt  on  his  right,  laving  the  languid, 
bleeding  hand. 

"Ah,  traitress!"  he  observed  scathingly. 

"Madam,"  interjected  Rockhurst,  as  the  pale 
blue  eyes  were  raised  in  wonder  from  their  task, 
"your  valiant  friend  refers,  I  imagine,  to  your  having 
honoured  me  with  a  song,  an  invitation,  a  token,  and 
a  key.  It  is  because  of  his  failure  to  understand 
the.  right  of  a  lady  to  dispose  of  all  favours  at  her 
will  that  he  met  with  the  little  accident  to  which  he 
now  owes  the  honour  and  the  joy  of  your  sweet 
ministration." 

"Sir  ... ! "  cried  Ramon  the  Capitan,  lifting 
his  olive-hued  countenance  to  fling  an  uncertain 
glare  across  the  table.  Then,  no  fresh  argument 
apparently  occurring  to  him,  he  repeated  resent- 
fully,  "  Traitress  —  traitress  !  " 

"  In  heaven's  name,"  she  cried,  pausing  in  her 
task,  "was  it  not  you?  —  How,  sir,  was  it  you?" 

She  turned  her  childish  gaze  from  one  to  the 
other,  her  blond  head,  as  she  knelt,  just  emerging 
above  the  table.  For  all  answer,  Rockhurst  drew 
key  and  kerchief  from  his  breast  and  pushed  them 
toward  her. 


3<d  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

The  Spaniard  drew  breath  for  a  fresh  compli- 
ment. But,  Marcelin  putting  a  second  glass  oppor- 
tunely to  his  hand,  he  plunged  his  mustache  again 
into  the  wine. 

"Ah,  what  a  mistake!"  murmured  the  vrow, 
returning  placidly  to  her  ministrations.  "Alas, 
what  a  cut !  —  it  must  be  tended  by  the  surgeon, 
but  I  will  draw  the  lips  together  and  bandage. 
You  can  give  yourself  time  for  supper  first." 

She  wound  the  strips  firmly  as  she  spoke,  though 
the  patient  spluttered  in  his  cup,  winced,  and  whis- 
tled. To  complete  the  artistic  effect  she  took  the 
handkerchief  that  lay  on  the  table  and  tied  it  neatly 
over  all.  Rockhurst  was  shaken  with  his  silent 
laughter  over  the  singular  pair  of  lovers. 

"Sir,"  said  the  little  hostess,  rising  to  her  feet 
and  addressing  him,  then,  not  without  dignity : 
"I  know  not  whom  you  may  be,  but  your  presence 
here  is  the  result  of  a  misunderstanding.  That 
you  may  not  misunderstand  further,  let  me  inform 
you  that  I  receive  the  Capitan  Ramon  at  this  hour 
only  because  my  husband,  who  went  off  to-day  to 
Antwerp,  has  forbidden  him  to  enter  his  house." 

"Madam,"  said  Rockhurst,  as  he  rose  in  his 
turn  and  bowed,  concealing  under  an  air  of  preter- 
natural gravity  his  delight  at  the  simple  statement, 


The  King's  Comrade  31 

"had  I  the  honour  of  standing  in  your  husband's 
shoes,  I  should  be  jealous  of  every  dog  that  looked 
at  you." 

"But,  sir,"  she  exclaimed,  her  gaze  widening 
upon  him,  "but  my  husband  is  old  and  fat." 

The  hard  brilliancy  of  the  Cavalier's  eye  softened  : 
here  was  a  remark  which  betrayed  the  logic  of  a 
perfectly  childish  mind. 

"The  poor  Capitan  Ramon,"  she  went  on,  "has 
so  little  money  and  gets  such  poor  fare.  I  think  it 
but  right  to  help  him." 

"Madam,"  said  Rockhurst,  "you  have  described 
my  own  case.  I  bless  the  hour  when  I  was  inspired 
to  pass  beneath  the  window  of  so  tender-hearted  a 
lady!" 

"Indeed,"  she  said,  and  her  creamy  skin  flushed 
to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  "if  you  will  share  the  supper, 
too,  I  shall  be  glad  of  it." 

Again  the  Spaniard  rolled  his  glare  of  sullen  doubt. 
Rockhurst  had  not  lived  the  life  of  camps  for  so 
many  years  without  becoming  familiar  with  every 
variety  of  your  soldado.  He  was  able,  by  this  time, 
to  read  very  clearly  that  here  was  but  one  of  those 
ubiquitous  "officers  of  fortune"  who,  behind  a 
punctilious  manner  and  a  conquering  exterior, 
screen  anything  but  a  chivalric  soul  —  mercenaries 


32  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

who,  no  doubt,  will  fight  when  occasion  is  impera- 
tive, but  who  reckon  upon  looks  as  much  as  upon 
" derring-do "  for  the  securing  of  this  world's  com- 
forts. The  attack  in  the  garden,  under  the  spur  of 
sudden  fury,  upon  the  invader  of  his  own  conquered 
province,  had  exhausted  the  Capitan's  pugnacity : 
Rockhurst  saw  that,  in  the  further  progress  of  the 
night's  adventure,  this  Ramon  need  no  longer  be 
taken  into  account. 

"I  should  be  churl,  indeed,"  said  he  to  the  lady, 
as  he  sat  down  at  the  table,  "to  decline  your  gracious 
courtesy.  Nay,  madam,  pray  take  your  seat ;  my 
servant  will  even  pass  the  dishes.  Natheless,  if 
you  will  so  honour  me,  a  glass  of  wine  from  your 
fair  hand  ?  .  .  .  I  give  you  thanks.  —  Marcelin, 
you  can  feed  the  Sehor  Capitan." 


So  the  odd  supper  party  began;  the  hostess  un- 
consciously admiring;  the  Spaniard  all  a-frown; 
Rockhurst  rattling  his  compliments  with  fascinating 
courtliness  —  his  heart  the  while  in  the  bare  lodg- 
ings of  the  Quai  Vert  with  his  unprovided  King; 
his  brain  intent  upon  turning  the  tide  of  events  to 
the  channels  of  his  own  purpose.  He  could  see 
nothing  thus  far,  but  to  await  the  moment  when  the 


The  King's  Comrade  33 

Spaniard,  sufficiently  fuddled  with  wine  after  his 
blood-letting,  might  be  conveyed  back  to  the  street 
by  Marcelin  and  handed  over  to  the  next  patrol. 
Then,  thought  Rockhurst,  the  gentle  vrow  would 
be  left  to  the  unhampered  diplomacy  of  her  unin- 
vited guest  (who  felt  prepared  to  wield  it  as  profit- 
ably, and  justify  it  as  gallantly,  as  any  Castilian 
in  Bruges),  and  all  would  be  plain  sailing. 

The  astute  valet  seemed  to  have  divined  the 
scheme,  and  was  plying  the  bottle  sedulously  upon 
his  charge.  Fate,  however,  upon  which  the  wander- 
ers had  hitherto  so  blindly  reckoned,  again  wielded 
the  key. 

Marcelin  had  hardly  drawn  the  first  sweep  of 
the  knife  upon  the  goose's  breast  when  the  house 
reverberated  to  the  sound  of  distant  knocking. 
The  little  dame  went  as  white  as  the  kerchief  at  her 
bosom ;  a  far  greater  discomfiture  fell  upon  her  than 
she  had  manifested  at  sight  of  her  gallant's 
wound. 

"Heaven's  mercy!"  she  gasped;  "it  is  from  the 
street!" 

She  ran  to  the  inner  door  and  listened  in  the 
passage ;  the  knocking  was  resumed,  from  no  patient 
or  weakling  hand,  in  peculiar  cadence. 

"It  is  my  husband,"  she  said  then,  coming  back 

D 


34  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

into  the  room,  with  the  calmness  of  despair.  "It 
is  my  husband,  and  I  am  lost." 

The  Spaniard  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  swaying, 
a  look  of  dismay  and  helplessness  upon  his  coun- 
tenance. Instinctively  she  turned  to  Rockhurst, 
and  pointing  to  the  sorry  figure,  she  cried:  — 

"My  husband  will  never  forgive  me  .  .  .  no, 
Josse  will  never  forgive  me !  He  bought  Ramon 
out  when  they  had  billeted  him  on  us,  last  month. 
He  bought  him  out  and  I  was  forbidden  ever  to 
speak  to  him  again.  I  thought  I  was  safe  to-night 
...  I  am  lost !" 

The  thunder  of  the  husband's  rapping  accompa- 
nied her  lament  with  swelling  rhythm. 

"Oh  !"  she  went  on,  "Josse  told  me  this  morning 
he  was  going  to  Antwerp.     It  was  a  trap  !" 

"A  trap!"  exclaimed  the  Cavalier  gaily.  "But 
there  is  a  way  out,  madam,  a  way  out,  since  there 
was  a  way  in  !" 

"To  the  devil  with  this  night's  work!"  suddenly 
gurgled  the  Capitan.  "To  the  devil,  say  I,  with 
women  and  fools!" 

His  lady's  wine  had  not  been  without  effect  upon 
his  wits ;  but  he  was  sober  enough  to  seize  the  situa- 
tion and  act  on  his  rival's  hint.  In  three  stagger- 
ing steps  he  was  at  the  door,  and  they  could  hear 


The  King's  Comrade  35 

him  break  into  a  kind  of  groping  run  down  the 
passage. 

In  the  midst  of  her  terror  the  Dutchwoman's 
eye  flashed  with  sudden  scorn. 

"Truly,"  said  Rockhurst,  as  if  in  answer,  "'tis 
a  valiant  heart !  Yet,  madam,  with  him  is  your 
chief  anxiety  removed.  Whilst  you  play  with 
bolts  and  delay  your  lord  with  fond  embrace,  we, 
on  our  side,  vanish  by  the  garden  whence  we  came. 
Aye,  and  let  out  the  sehor,  for  'tis  still  I  who  have 
the  key.  —  Go,  dear  madam ;  leave  the  rest  to 
us." 

"Alack,  alack!"  she  moaned,  "this  supper  table, 
laid  for  two,  will  yet  betray  me!" 

"Say  you  so!"  exclaimed  Rockhurst,  his  wits 
leaping  to  the  humorous  opportunity.  "Nay, 
then  shall  the  supper  vanish,  too  !  Your  Flemish 
household  still  sleeps  heavily;  our  chances  are 
good.  Madam,  before  you  hurry  to  the  door,  you 
had  better  put  some  dishevelment  in  your  attire 
to  show  you  had  but  just  descended  from  your 
bedchamber,  where  you  were  doubtless  already 
disrobing.  —  Marcelin,  you  rogue,  you  have  a 
reputation  for  a  smart  table  servant ;  deserve  it !" 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  hurried  words,  he  had  begun 
himself  to  toss  goose  and  pasty  into  the  basket  and 


36  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

to  stuff  a  brace  of  the  long  flagons  securely  in  the 
interstices. 

There  was  a  stir  overhead;  the  household  was 
awaking. 

"Monseigneur,"  cried  Marcelin,  on  an  inspira- 
tion, "no  time  for  niceties!  If  monseigneur  will 
take  one  end  of  the  cloth,  I  will  take  the  other. 
We  can  carry  the  victualling  wholesale  into  the 
garden  and  there  advise  about  packing —  Madam 
will  see  to  the  bloody  basin,  no  doubt?" 

Upon  these  words,  with  all  presence  of  mind,  the 
valet  ransacked  the  dresser  of  everything  it  bore  in 
the  shape  of  good  cheer,  cakes  and  ham,  brawn  and 
an  eel  pie,  and  many  flagons  (not  forgetting  the 
square-faced  bottle),  and  made  a  pile  of  the  booty 
upon  the  table. 

Obedient  to  his  suggestion,  the  hostess  had  tripped 
out  to  fling  the  contents  of  the  basin  upon  a  flower 
bed.  She  came  back  in  a  trice,  found  Marcelin 
already  loaded  with  the  weighty,  strangely  bulging 
bag,  and  with  fervent  words  of  thanks  held  the 
door  open  for  him.  Rockhurst  meanwhile  was  gaily 
blowing  out  candle  after  candle  of  the  hanging  crown. 
Ponderous  footsteps  descending  the  stairs  proclaimed 
that  the  porter  was  at  length  aroused. 

"One  light   for  you,  madam,"  said  Rockhurst; 


The  King's  Comrade  37 

"you  are  just  in  time!"  He  thrust  the  last  unex- 
tinguished taper  into  her  hand ;  then,  his  arm 
round  her  waist,  bending  his  height  to  her  small 
stature,  drew  her  toward  the  door:  "Good-by," 
he  said,  "sweet  hostess.  Another  time  choose 
more  wisely  both  your  hour  and  your  cavalier." 

She  turned  her  soft,  childish  face  with  a  little  sob  up 
toward  him.  And  with  a  sudden  stirring  of  the  heart, 
as  toward  a  winsome  child,  he  bent  and  kissed  her. 

"I  shall  never  forget  how  you  have  saved  me,  this 
night !"  she  said,  her  lips  upon  his.  At  which  Rock- 
hurst  kissed  her  again  to  conceal  his  amusement. 

The  sound  of  a  bar  grating  reluctantly  in  its  socket 
rang  the  urgency  of  parting.     Yet,  she  clutched  him. 

"You  said  you  were  poor  and  hungry,  like  him 
.  .  .  like  him  who  fled,"  she  panted.  "I  had  saved 
this  for  him :  I  had  rather  you  had  it." 

She  thrust  a  small  velvet  bag  into  his  hand,  one 
second  more  pressed  clingingly  against  him,  and  the 
next  instant  was  flying  light-footed  away.  There 
came  a  sound  of  a  growling  voice ;  at  which  Rock- 
hurst  in  all  celerity  flung  his  cloak  over  his  shoulders 
and  withdrew,  closing  the  outer  door  noiselessly 
behind  him.  Marcelin's  lantern  flashed  one  ray 
of  guidance :  yonder  the  gate  and  the  end  of  the 
adventure. 


38  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

The  three  emerged  into  the  street.  Rockhurst 
paused,  his  silent  laughter  stimulated  afresh  at  sight 
of  Marcelin,  who  stood  doubled  in  two  under  the  bur- 
den of  the  great  white  bag,  his  basket  with  the  two 
bottle  necks  protruding,  horn-like,  on  his  arm,  and  his 
lantern  illumining  a  grin  of  supreme  satisfaction. 
Then  he  glanced  down  at  the  purse  in  his  hand  —  it 
lay  in  the  hollow  with  a  highly  comforting  weight  — 
and  from  thence  to  the  Spaniard,  who  had  begun  to 
crawl  away,  supporting  himself  against  the  wall. 

"Sefior  Capitan,"  he  cried  ironically  after  him, 
"I  wish  you  once  more,  and  I  trust  finally,  a  very 
good  night !  —  Marcelin,  I'll  take  that  basket :  we 
must  make  good  speed." 

He  halted,  however,  yet  a  breathing  space  to  gaze 
at  the  great  front  of  the  house  where,  from  window 
to  window,  gleamed  a  light  on  its  upward  way, 
suggestive  of  a  bed-going  procession. 

"This  is  how  we  live  at  Bruges  !"  he  murmured  to 
himself,  dropped  the  purse  philosophically  into  his 
pocket,  thrust  his  right  arm  through  the  basket  and, 
his  hand  pressing  on  his  rapier  hilt,  the  tip  of  the 
scabbard  jauntily  raising  the  cloak  behind  him, 
started  off  at  a  swing. 

Marcelin  followed  at  a  gay  if  uneven  hobble, 
occasionally  staggering  under  his  succulent  burden. 


The  King's  Comrade  39 

Old  Chitterley  opened  the  door  to  his  master. 

"His  Majesty  sleeps,"  said  he,  finger  on  lips;  "I 
looked  in  but  just  now,  to  place  a  log  on  the  fire  :  his 
Majesty  slumbered  very  sound,  as  I  heard  and  saw." 

Then  the  speaker's  eye  wandered  to  the  basket 
on  his  lordship's  arm,  the  contents  of  which  were 
agreeably  discernible,  and  to  the  improvised  sack  on 
Marcelin's  back,  for  which  the  latter's  jubilant  face 
was  warrant. 

"Heaven  be  praised,  my  lord!"  he  exclaimed 
fervently,  as  he  extended  his  hand  to  relieve  his 
master.  The  tragedy  of  events  had  robbed  the  old 
servant  of  all  sense  of  humour.  "His  Majesty  shall 
have  supper  to-night ;  our  house  is  not  disgraced." 

"Aye,"  said  the  Cavalier  cheerfully,  tapping  his 
breast;  "and  I  have  here  the  wherewithal  for  many 
more,  an  I  am  not  mistaken.  See,  Chitterley, 
since  his  Majesty  sleepeth  so  fast,  an  you  can  spread 
the  fare  without  awakening  him,  so  that  he  may 
open  his  eyes  upon  a  pleasant  sight.  There  has  been 
but  little  pleasantness  for  the  royal  glance  of  late." 

"I  will  step  like  a  cat,  monseigneur,"  said  Mar- 
celin,  quicker  to  seize  the  idea  than  his  English 
comrade. 

Whether  Charles  found  it  not  worth  while  to  rouse 


4o  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

himself  from  the  only  condition  in  which  he  could 
forget  his  dismal  state,  or  whether  indeed  the  ser- 
vants had  carried  out  their  task  with  true  noiseless- 
ness,  he  stirred  not  in  his  great  chair  by  the  fire  until 
Rockhurst,  stepping  up  to  him  gently,  laid  on  his 
lap  the  velvet  bag  with  its  snug  weight  of  coin.  Then 
he  opened  a  lazy  eye  while,  instinctively,  his  long 
hand  closed  upon  the  purse. 

The  King  stared  a  moment  vacantly  at  his  devoted 
follower,  and  with  a  stupendous  yawn  let  his  gaze 
wander  round  the  room. 

"Odd's  fish  !"  he  cried,  critically  weighing  the  bag; 
"a  purse,  my  lord,  as  we  live!  And  a  fuller  than 
these  fingers  have  held  for  many  a  week !  —  Am  I 
dreaming,  or  am  I  but  just  awakened  from  some 
monstrous  nightmare  of  years  ?  Is  this  St.  Germain 
once  again  ?  —  or  has  fate  worked  with  us  benignly 
while  we  slept,  and  is  this  Whitehall  at  last  ?  .  .  . 
Why,  my  merry  Rockhurst,  this  is  never  a  goose  I 
behold,  on  a  Bruges  table,  flanked  by  pasty  and 
brawn !  Hath  our  uncle  of  Spain  paid  our  pension 
at  length  —  or  has  our  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 
chanced  at  last  upon  an  Exchequer  to  draw  upon  ?  — 
Harry,  dost  thou  actually  hold  in  thy  hand  a  brim- 
ming goblet?  Aye,  methinks  the  fragrance  of  it 
already  reaches  me!" 


The  King's  Comrade  41 

He  broke  off  his  bantering  tone  to  add,  as  he 
dropped  the  purse  carelessly  into  his  pocket  and  ex- 
tended his  hand  for  the  glass  :  — 

"Nay,  but,  prince  of  friends,  how  have  such  mira- 
cles been  worked?" 

"My  liege,"  said  Rockhurst,  with  unmoved 
gravity,  "even  as  I  ventured  to  prophesy:  by  a 
laugh,  a  lie,  a  fight,  a  kiss.  The  fight  came  first  and 
the  kiss  came  last  —  and  the  lie,  I'll  warrant,  is 
even  now  being  expounded  within  the  house  of  a 
certain  mynheer  of  this  town.  As  for  the  laugh, 
your  Majesty,  nay,  the  laugh  will  be  between  you 
and  me  anon  when  I  tell  you  the  tale.  .  .  .  But, 
Chitterley,  bring  me  a  glass  of  wine." 

Charles,  his  merriment  stayed  on  his  lips  by  the 
look  of  sudden  emotion  he  marked  on  his  host's 
face,  gazed  wonderingly  up  at  him. 

Rockhurst  took  the  glass,  and  dropping  on  one 
knee : — 

"I  pledge  the  future!"  he  murmured.  "I  drink 
to  the  hope  of  England,  to  your  Majesty's  happy 
restoration,  to  the  triumph  of  his  cause  —  Sursnm 
cor  da !  .  .  .  my  beloved  liege  ! ; 


i" 


FARRANT    CHACE 


FARRANT  CHACE 


FARRANT  CHACE 

Storm  without;  and  within,  melancholy  hu- 
mours !  —  Without,  fine,  blinding,  dry  snow,  driven 
in  eddies  against  whatever  obstacle  it  met :  against 
the  walls  of  Sir  Paul  Farrant's  Manor  House: 
against  the  holly  and  clipped  yews  of  his  garden: 
against  the  serried  ranks  of  firs  which  screened  his 
estate  from  the  wild  blasts  that  ride  from  the  Downs 
up  the  great  rise  of  Hindhead.  Never  more  wildly, 
never  more  triumphantly,  did  the  winds  ride  than 
on  this  night  of  the  winter  solstice,  this  Christmas 
Eve,  the  fifth  since  the  happy  date  of  his  Most 
Gracious  Majesty's  Restoration. 

Within,  a  fire  of  logs  glowing  under  the  huge 
mantelled  chimney;  rosy  flicker  on  wainscot, 
glitter  of  crystal  and  silver  on  fair  white  napery,  and 
a  full-paunched  bottle  or  two,  dusty  and  cobwebbed ; 
crocus  flames  of  candles  against  the  rose  of  the 
hearth-light  and  the  brown  of  the  oak.      Cheerful 

45 


46  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

enough  surroundings,  one  would  have  deemed  — 
a  sort  of  room  where  a  man  might  hug  comfort 
with  philosophic  egotism  and  have  the  greater  zest 
in  it  for  the  thought  of  the  outside  desolation;  sip 
his  glass  to  the  tune  of  the  wind ;  and  toast  his  legs 
in  luxury  as  he  pictured  to  himself  the  circumstance 
of  any  poor  devil  who,  upon  such  a  night,  still 
chanced  to  be  on  the  road. 

Yet,  as  it  has  been  said,  the  temper  that  reigned 
within  the  oak  parlour  of  Farrant  Chace  was  no 
whit  more  cheerful  than  the  weather  on  the  moor. 
Indeed,  my  lord  Viscount  Rockhurst  —  on  his 
way  back  from  France,  obliged  to  halt  by  stress  of 
weather  at  the  house  of  a  fellow-traveller  —  looked 
more  particularly  disqualified  than  usual  to  wear 
the  nickname  bestowed  upon  him  by  the  "merry 
Monarch"  himself  in  mockery  of  his  wild  favourite's 
invariable  gravity.  "Merry  Rockhurst"  —  never 
less  merry  of  aspect  than  to-night. 

His  long  legs  extended  toward  the  embers,  he 
lay  rather  than  sat  in  the  straight-backed  chair  of 
honour  beside  the  hearth.  His  head  with  its  chis- 
elled features,  worn,  keen,  witty,  was  sunken  on  his 
breast;  his  eyes  were  fixed  abstractedly  upon  the 
darting  flame,  his  hands  inertly  folded.  For  some 
ten  minutes  he  had  not  uttered  a  word  or  altered 


Farrant  Chace  47 

his  attitude,  and  the  silent  immobility  of  his  guest 
was  beginning  to  tell  heavily  upon  the  nerves  of 
Sir  Paul  Farrant,  his  young  host. 

Sir  Paul  bit  his  lip,  paced  the  room  three  or  four 
times;  then  halted  before  the  card-table,  which 
stood  askew  against  the  wall,  as  if  it  had  been  thrust 
aside  by  an  impatient  hand.  He  took  up  the  dice- 
box,  dangled  it,  dropped  it ;  flipped  a  few  of  the  scat- 
tered cards,  his  eyes  ever  wandering  back  to  his 
companion ;  a  hesitating  phrase,  ever  checked  upon 
his  lips.  Now  he  went  to  the  window,  pulled  the 
curtains  aside  and  peered  forth. 

"More  snow  —  more  snow!  Ugh,  'tis  plaguey 
cold!"  he  cried,  with  exaggerated  airiness,  return- 
ing to  the  hearth  and  spreading  his  hands  to  the 
blaze. 

"The  drifts  are  rising  higher  and  higher,"  he 
pursued.  "  No  hope  for  the  road,  'tis  not  fit  weather 
for  a  dog." 

The  figure  in  the  great  chair  stirred,  a  lazy  voice 
was  raised  :  ■ — 

"Certainly  not  weather  for  a  gentleman." 

The  other  leaped  to  the  symptom  of  restored 
companionship. 

"As  you  say,  my  lord,  very  vile  weather  indeed. 
Not  fit  for  us  to  travel  in,  for  very  truth." 


48  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Lord  Rockhurst's  long  eyelids  nickered. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  with  marked  deliberation,  his  gaze 
still  fixed  on  the  fire,  "I  spoke  in  the  singular." 

Sir  Paul's  hand,  still  stretched  toward  the  glow, 
suddenly  trembled.  He  had  a  young,  smooth  face, 
transparent  to  emotion;   it  grew  scarlet. 

"And  what  might  your  lordship  mean  by  that?" 
he  asked,  breathing  quicker. 

Lord  Rockhurst  shifted  his  person  to  a  more 
erect  attitude,  and  turned  his  satiric  face  toward 
the  speaker.  The  elder  by  some  fifteen  years,  he 
had  none  of  the  genial  gleam  in  his  eye,  none  of 
the  something  almost  fatherly  with  which  the  mature 
man  of  kindly  mettle  regards  youth.  —  Lord  Rock- 
hurst's gaze  was  colder  than  the  wind  that  whistled 
in  the  leaves,  bleaker  than  the  moorland  waste. 

"I  do  not  desire  to  qualify  you,"  said  he. 

From  its  uneasy  flush,  the  young  face  went  white. 

"My  lord,  my  lord  !  ..." 

But  Rockhurst  raised  his  hand  with  a  commanding 
gesture. 

"When  a  man  enters  upon  a  game  of  hazard  with 
another,  'tis  the  very  essence  of  honour  that  the 
chances  should  be  equal  between  them.  Now, 
my  most  excellent  young  host,  had  you  played  me 
with  loaded  dice  to-night — " 


F arrant  Chace  49 

The  other  broke  out  foaming  at  the  mouth,  with 
the  acrid  rage  of  the  helplessly  insulted. 

"My  lord  Rockhurst  — !  I  will  suffer  no  man, 
nay,  not  even  under  my  own  roof,  to  dare  such  an 
insinuation.     The  dice,  my  lord—" 

He  made  a  frantic  gesture  toward  the  card-table. 
But,  like  the  play  of  water  upon  red  iron,  Rock- 
hurst's  cool  voice  fell  upon  his  heat :  — 

"Nay  —  the  dice  are  right  enough  —  so  are  the 
cards.  We  were  but  us  two,  moreover,  so  you  had 
no  accomplice.  These  are  the  elements  of  honest 
play,  as  I  was  about  to  expound  to  you  —  since, 
indeed,  your  father's  only  son,  and  a  lad  of  your 
experience  in  court  and  camp,  appears  to  require 
such  expounding." 

He  changed  his  tone  for  one  more  subtly  keen,  as 
the  surgeon  his  blade  at  the  delicate  moment: 
"But  another  element  in  play,  between  gentlemen, 
is  that  one  player  should  not  stake  against  the  other 
sums  he  does  not  possess." 

Farrant,  wincing,  ran  his  hands  desperately 
through  his  fair  locks;  he  fell  into  an  arm-chair  and, 
still  clutching  his  love  curls,  drew  them  across  his 
face.  From  behind  this  screen,  after  a  long  pause, 
he  spoke  muffled  words :  — 

"Your  lordship  seems  to  forget  the  circumstances. 

E 


50  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

To  help  your  lordship  to  pass  this  time  of  tedium 
(since  no  horses  that  ever  were  foaled  could  take 
your  coach  on  through  these  snows) ;  having  the 
responsibility  of  entertaining  your  lordship  .  .  . 
since  you  can  find  little  pleasure  but  in  the  cards 
.  .  .  and  having,  in  these  cursed  twenty-four 
hours,  lost  every  stiver  of  money,  every  rood  of  the 
poor  land  I  possess  .  .  .  zounds !  my  lord,  that 
I  should  have  risked  a  few  more  throws  with 
nought  but  my  ruin  to  back  them  .  .  .  damna- 
tion, my  lord  Rockhurst,  since  but  a  turn  of  the 
dice  might  have  set  us  even  again  !  —  these  are  hard 
words,  it  seemeth  to  me  !     Aye,  and  hard  thoughts." 

Thus  set  forth,  his  own  case  seemed  to  the  youth 
so  strong  that  he  lifted  his  head  again  and  displayed 
his  countenance  as  wrathful  and  full  of  reproach 
now  as,  a  minute  ago,  it  had  been  shamed. 

Lord  Rockhurst  crossed  one  lean  leg  over  the  other, 
settled  his  elbows  at  the  most  comfortable  angle 
the  carven  arms  of  the  chair  would  afford,  and  let 
his  brilliant  hazel  eye  wander  to  the  red  embers 
and  become  dreamy  once  more. 

For  a  long  while  silence  reigned  again  in  the  oak 
parlour  of  Farrant  Chace. 

A  resinous  knot  in  the  pine  log  exploded  with 


F arrant  Chace  51 

miniature  fierceness  —  a  white  flame  jetted  out, 
hissing,  and  dropped.  The  fire  settled  itself  and 
the  ashes  slipped  away,  sighing.  In  the  tense 
silence  these  small  sounds  made  emphasis;  while 
without,  ever  and  anon,  the  blast  came  rolling  up  the 
slope  from  the  far  distance,  dashed  through  the 
frantic  swaying  firs  with  screams  of  triumph,  to  hurl 
itself  against  the  sturdy,  walls,  there  to  break  and 
part  on  either  side  and  dash  onward  once  more. 

...  So  comes  the  charge  of  horse  against  the  solid 
mass  of  foot  with  ever-gathering  speed,  rider  and 
beast  together,  in  one  frenzied  impetus,  to  break 
themselves  against  the  serried  pikes.  .  .  . 

"Your  father  fell  beside  me  at  Naseby,"  said 
Rockhurst  presently,  as  if  speaking  to  himself. 

The  incisive  note  had  vanished  from  his  voice. 
Farrant  rose  from  the  table  and  came  towards  him, 
with  something  of  the  schoolboy's  mien,  who  half 
resents  his  master's  anger  and  half  hopes  to  see  him 
mollified.     Rockhurst  went  on  musingly :  — 

"He  and  I  were  neck  and  neck  through  Edgehill, 
Newbury,  Marston  Moor.  .  .  .  Until  that  hour 
I  was  young,  younger  than  you  are.  And  in  those 
days  I  had  mighty  thoughts.  But  in  my  mightiest 
I  never  saw  myself  reaching  to  his  level.     If  I  could 


52  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

but  keep  my  nag's  head  close  to  his,  and  go  where 
he  led,  leap  where  he  leaped  —  'twas  enough  for 
me.  .  .  .  When  he  fell,  struck  down  by  Ireton's 
pikes,  I  thought  the  world  grew  dark.  .  .  . 
Then  I  was  young,  Master  Paul.  And  now,  sitting 
in  this  chair  to-night"  —  Rockhurst  slowly  straight- 
ened himself  and  turned  his  head  toward  Farrant  — 
"I  find  there  is  still  something  left  in  me  of  the  old 
self  that  I  had  deemed  to  be  dead  this  many  a  year. 
Enough  to  be  glad  to-night,  sir,  that  your  father  is 
dead.  —  Paul  Farrant,"  went  on  the  elder  slowly, 
"speak :  had  the  luck  turned  as  you  hoped,  upon  what 
foundation  would  you  have  built  your  winnings?" 

The  other  hesitated,  stammered,  made  a  fresh 
abortive  effort  to  brazen  it  out. 

"Nay,  my  lord,  the  world  hardly  knows  you  so 
squeamish.  If  such  rigid  rules  obtained  at  White- 
hall we  should  be  a  dull  lot,  and  many  a  merry 
hour  lost.  Did  your  lordship  say  you  had  charged 
Ireton's  men?  By  those  tenets  we  might  have 
dreamed  that  your  place  had  rather  been  among 
the  precisians.  .  .  ." 

A  subtle  change  swept  over  Rockhurst's  counte- 
nance. The  air  of  grave  severity,  the  shadow  of 
regretful  tenderness,  passed  from  him,  to  be  re- 
placed by  the   mocking  glance,   the  expression   at 


F arrant  Chace 


S3 


once  reckless  and  cynical  which,  before  the  world's 
eyes,  characterised  the  man  who  had  won  for  himself 
—  among  a  company  of  reprobates  —  that  second 
if  scarcely  more  appropriate  nickname  of  his, 
"RakehellRockhurst." 

"Nay,  but  you're  a  promising  lad!"  said  he, 
gibing.  "And  you'll  make  your  way,  my  son,  I 
doubt  me  not.  Time  advances,  old  types  die  out, 
and  manners  change.  The  rules  of  honour  which 
still  shackle  old  fools  like  myself  would  chafe  your 
gallant  spirits.  .  .  .  Yet,  hark  ye,  without  be- 
ing a  precisian,  Master  Paul,  in  my  day,  a  man  — 
a  gentleman  —  would  no  more  have  staked  what  he 
did  not  possess,  would  no  more  have  dallied  with  the 
thought  of  selling  a  friend,  than  he  would  have  forced 
a  lady.  But,  sure,  what  dull  fellows  are  we  of  the 
old  days  by  the  side  of  such  sparks,  such  knights  as 
yourself !  Meanwhile,"  and  here  a  wide  and  uncon- 
trolled yawn  showed  teeth  as  white  as  a  wolf's, 
"meanwhile,  excellent  young  man,  I  have  here  in 
my  pocket  your  signature  to  so  much  waste  paper 
—  I  have  it  as  a  memento  of  a  series  of  tedious 
games,  a  reminder  of  the  prospect  of  another  evening, 
with  your  company,  for  all  delectation.  —  Gad- 
zooks,  sir,  a  man  does  not  invite  another  to  his 
house,  in  a  snow-storm,  if  there  is  a  tolerable  inn 


54  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst ': 

at  hand,  when  he,  being  himself  green  as  a  March 
lamb,  has  only  a  housekeeper  old  as  sin !  .  .  . 
The  Gods  preserve  me  from  the  green  man  and  the 
withered  woman !  Add  to  this  a  cellar  reduced  to  thin 
Rhenish  and  claret  —  a  cellar  no  sane  man  could 
get  drunk  on,  sir,  and  Christmastide  !"  Eye  and 
voice  became  even  more  insolently  provocative.  "I 
have  known  many  a  one  spitted  for  less  provocation." 

"Would  your  lordship  find  some  solace  in  having 
a  try  for  my  vitals?"  cried  the  youthful  host  eagerly. 
His  lip  trembled;  tears  of  mortification  were 
not  far  from  his  eyes.  The  fleer  at  his  dull  entertain- 
ment cut  him  more  keenly  than  the  rebuke  touching 
the  honour  of  his  play.  He  already  saw  himself 
held  up  to  the  ridicule  of  the  Court  by  the  Rake- 
hell's  unsparing  tongue.  —  Gad,  his  old  house- 
keeper !  his  doubtful  cellar !  He,  who  had  worked 
so  hard  to  achieve  a  position  of  fashion  and  gallantry, 
who  had  plumed  himself  upon  the  distinction  of 
playing  the  host  to  so  high  a  courtier  as  Viscount 
Rockhurst,  Lord  Constable  of  the  Tower  —  the 
King's  own  close  friend !  .  .  .  He  flung  his 
arm  toward  the  swords  that  hung  fraternally  on  the 
wall,  side  by  side,  in  their  royal  crimson  baldricks. 

But  Rockhurst's  laugh,  low-pitched,  arrested  all 
further  movement. 


F arrant  Chace  55 

"Nay,  good  Sir  Paul,  I  pray  you !  However  you 
may  relish  the  idea  of  spilling  the  blood  of  your 
guest,  your  guest  cannot  so  far  forget  the  rules  of 
gentle  behaviour  as  to  cross  swords  with  his  host. 
Secondly,  sir,  you  appear  still  to  have  to  learn  that  a 
man  may  not  fight  with  one  to  whom  he  owes  money. 
And  thirdly,  now :  when  I  had  slain  you,  think  you 
that  your  corpse  would  be  more  amusing  than  your 
live  body?  .  .  .  Though,  truth,  it  could  scarce 
be  less  so." 

He  laughed  again,  through  his  teeth,  at  his  own 
gibe. 

The  boy,  bated  to  desperation,  stood  clenching 
and  unclenching  his  hands,  fighting  back  the  furious 
tears.  The  other,  his  back  to  the  flames,  stood 
looking  at  him  some  time  in  silence.  Then,  into  his 
pitiless  hawk's  eye  came  a  gleam  of  humour  —  a 
slight  softening  of  compassion,  perhaps.  The  mind 
that  once  yields  to  humour  can  rarely  continue  to 
entertain  the  deadly  earnestness  of  anger.  Rock- 
hurst  yawned  again,  drew  some  crumpled  sheets 
from  his  pocket  and  flung  them  on  the  table. 

"Now,  look  you,  Sir  Paul,"  said  he,  good-na- 
turedly, "I  care  not  for  this  mood.  Devise  me 
but  something  of  an  entertainment  for  this  evening 
—  an  entertainment,  mind  you,  that  shall  honestly 


56  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

entertain  me  —  why  then,  I'll  stake  again ;  I'll  stake 
these,  which  represent  your  indebtedness  to  me, 
against  your  inventiveness.  Shorten  but  a  couple  of 
hours  for  me,  and  I'll  shorten  my  memory  of  this 
night's  business.  Zounds,  never  stare  so !  Do 
you  not  understand  ?  'Tis  your  wit  for  your  hon- 
our —  and  the  chance  of  a  lifetime  to  prove  yourself 
a  man  of  resource  !" 

For  an  instant  Paul  Farrant's  countenance  be- 
came illumined;  he  made  a  hasty  step  forward. 
Then  he  hesitated,  and,  in  renewed  dismay,  put  his 
hand  to  his  forehead.  In  the  middle  of  the  snow- 
drift, with  a  condemned  cellar  and  an  ugly  house- 
keeper, debarred  from  gambling,  debarred  from 
fighting,  his  brain  paralysed  by  a  crushing  sense  of 
failure  and  folly  —  to  devise  amusement  for  this 
fastidious,  caustic  nobleman,  what  a  task ! 

He  moved  to  the  window,  in  reality  more  to  hide 
his  fresh  mortification  than  to  examine  the  prospect 
of  the  weather.  It  was  to  find  that  there  was  a  lull 
in  the  snowfall,  that  the  wind  had  rent  a  gap  be- 
tween the  brooding  clouds  and  revealed  a  patch 
of  starry  sky  ridden  by  the  sickle  of  a  young  moon. 
Through  the  swaying  trees  gleamed  fitfully  a  distant 
red  fire,  and  beyond  it,  further  down  the  waste, 
a  steadier  yellow  light  came  and  went,  as  the  wind 


F arrant  Chace  57 

bowed  and  released  some  plumy  fir  branch:  the 
iron-smelting  forge  of  the  Hammer  Pond !  The 
inn  at  Liphook !  Now,  he  remembered  him,  the 
smelter  was  a  man  of  infinite  popularity,  the  jester 
of  the  countryside;  one  who  could  sing  a  rousing 
stave  to  the  clank  of  his  hammer,  and  crack  you 
the  drollest  stories  over  the  home-brewed,  were  it 
only  strong  enough.  Failing  him,  there  was  the 
innkeeper  of  ttte  Anchor,  at  Liphook.  Mine  host 
had  the  secret  of  a  noted  posset  that  his  Majesty 
himself,  halting  on  the  Portsmouth  Road,  had 
once  generously  praised.  Nay,  at  the  inn  he  might 
possibly  pick  up  some  belated  traveller,  whose 
conversation  —  he  bitterly  thought  —  would  prove 
more  acceptable  than  his  own.  At  any  rate,  'twas 
all  the  hope  he  had  to  cling  to.  Rockhurst  never 
spared. 

"If  your  lordship  will  give  me  conge  for  a  short 
while,"  he  cried,  turning  back  to  the  room,  "I 
shall  endeavour  to  meet  your  wishes.  .  .  .  We 
may  not  be  so  destitute  of  entertaining  company  at 
Farrant  Chace  as  your  lordship  deems." 

He  seized  his  cloak,  flung  it  angrily  about  him, 
goaded  by  the  sound  of  the  faint  laugh,  and  strode 
out.  Rockhurst  subsided  into  the  chair,  laughed  a 
little  yet,  then  sighed  and  fell  a-brooding  again. 


II 

THE    LADY    IN    THE    SNOW 

The  lull  after  the  squall  had  left  a  waste  world, 
dim  yet  white,  beneath  a  cloud-strewn  sky.  High 
among  the  clouds  the  wind  was  still  racing;  and 
the  aspect  of  the  heavens  was  perpetually  changing, 
as  masses  of  vapour  rose  and  scuttled  before  the 
blast  like  giant  herds :  rent  apart,  drawing  closer,  scat- 
tered again.  Thus  the  land  was  a- flicker  with  shine 
and  shadows,  and  yet  lay  dead  under  that  semblance 
of  life. 

Paul  Farrant,  astride  the  old  farm  mare,  had  no 
thought  to  spare  for  the  new  appearance  of  the  white 
wilderness;  scarce  even  a  feeling  for  the  biting  cold. 
His  brain  was  all  astir  with  vivid,  angry  images. 
His  pulses  throbbed  with  the  excitement  of  the  gam- 
bler playing  for  the  highest  stakes  a  man  can  win 
or  lose. 

"  'Tis  now  your  wit  against  your  honour,"  had 
said  the  Rakehell. 

His  honour!     It  had  never  been  to  Farrant  the 

r8 


Farrant  Chace  59 

thing  dearer  than  his  own  soul,  which  to  lose,  even 
to  his  own  secret  knowledge,  were  damnation.  To 
know  himself  dishonoured  meant  to  him  merely 
disgrace  if  he  could  not  save  himself  by  his  wit. 
Yet  disgrace  spelt  the  most  unendurable  fate  that 
could  overtake  one  in  whose  nature  vanity  played 
the  chief  part.  And  if  he  failed  to  fulfil  the  con- 
dition so  contemptuously  placed  upon  his  worldly 
redemption,  he  knew  his  Rockhurst  —  all  was  over 
for  Farrant  the  aspiring;  for  Farrant,  who  was 
already  beginning  to  be  envied;  for  Farrant,  who 
had  once  sat  at  the  King's  supper-table  and  had 
actually  been  honoured  by  a  quip  from  his  Majesty's 
own  lips !  .  .  . 

Drooping  her  great  head,  drawing  her  shaggy 
feet  from  the  snow  with  dull,  sucking  sounds,  the 
mare  plodded  on  her  way.  He  did  not  attempt  to 
guide  her,  and  she  took  him  soberly  to  the  highroad, 
then  turned  toward  the  downward  slope  leading  to 
the  village.  On  one  side  a  black  line  of  hedge  ran 
in  and  out  like  a  ribbon;  on  the  other  all  barrier 
had  disappeared  under  the  drifting  snow.  Below  the 
turn  of  the  road  was  the  smelter's  forge,  redly  aglow 
in  the  distance;  and,  something  like  a  mile  further, 
the  village  where  the  noted  posset  might  even  now 
be  brewing;    where  comforted  travellers,  stamping 


60  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

the  snow  from  their  boots,  might  be  capping  each 
other's  tales  of  road  hardships  and  perils.  On  the 
sturdy  mare,  Paul  Farrant  had  no  doubt  he  could 
reach  the  further  goal ;  yet  he  hesitated.  The  plan 
which  had  driven  him  out  into  the  night  suddenly 
appeared  to  him  ineffable  folly.  A  paralysing 
vision  arose  before  him :  Rockhurst's  countenance 
at  sight  of  Master  Smelter,  with  the  black  fists,  as 
the  proposed  evening  comrade !  .  .  .  He  could 
see  the  dilation  of  the  nostrils,  the  haughty  lips, 
barely  apart  upon  a  smile.  What  a  tale  would  not 
Rockhurst's  tongue  make  of  it  for  royal  ears !  — 
As  for  the  inn,  were  he  to  find  there  some  chance 
gentlefolk,  how  could  he  hope  to  induce  them  to 
come  forth  again  on  such  a  night,  when,  in  truth, 
no  coach  was  like  to  find  a  passage  through  the  snow  ? 

Through  the  great  silence  a  distant  cry  pierced 
into  his  consciousness.  Heard  at  first  vaguely,  it 
fell  in  with  his  thought :  the  note,  it  seemed,  of  his 
own  distress.  But  in  a  moment  it  was  repeated, 
higher,  clearer,  an  unmistakable  call  for  help. 

He  was  in  the  mood  to  be  swayed  by  the  first 
impulse,  to  take  the  toss  of  fate.  His  was  not  the 
nature  to  turn  out  of  its  way  to  assist  the  afflicted ; 
but  now  he  wheeled  the  mare  round  and  drove  her 


F arrant  Chace  61 

up  the  hill,  fiercely,  as  if  his  own  deliverance,  not 
that  of  some  fellow-creature,  was  at  stake.  And, 
in  truth,  who  shall  say  that  it  was  not  ? 

On  the  edge  of  the  road,  at  its  abrupt  twist  down 
the  hill,  stood  the  black  bulk  of  a  coach,  horseless, 
crookedly  embedded  in  the  snow.  It  told  its  own 
tale.  As  he  drew  nearer,  a  cloaked  figure  staggered 
toward  him  and  almost  fell  against  his  steed's 
shoulder. 

"Oh,  do  not  pass;  do  not  go  by!"  moaned  a 
woman's  voice.     "I  am  dying  of  the  cold  !" 

She  lifted  her  face.  The  faint  light  of  the  rifted 
sky,  given  back  intensified  by  the  white  world,  had 
a  luminosity  of  its  own  in  which  most  things  were 
strangely  visible.  Paul  Farrant  saw  that  the  woman 
who  clutched  at  his  reins  was  young  and  fair-favoured. 
He  stared  a  moment  in  mere  astonishment.  Then 
a  thought,  devilish,  acute,  exultant,  leaped  into  his 
brain.  —  There  was  his  ransom  ! 

"Madam,"  he  said,  bending  down  over  his 
horse's  neck  and  peering  close  into  her  face,  "I 
am  fortunate  in  having  heard  you.  Are  you  indeed 
alone?" 

"Alone,  yes,"  she  answered  through  chattering 
teeth;  "the  servants  rode  away  for  help,  God 
knows  how  long  ago.   .   .  .     Perchance  they  are  lost 


62  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

in  the  snow,  dead,  somewhere.  Indeed,  with  this 
cold,  I  shall  soon  be  dead,  too  !" 

"Nay,  madam,  you  are  saved,"  said  Farrant, 
dismounting  hastily. 

Trembling  with  excitement,  he  tore  his  cloak 
from  his  shoulders  to  cast  it  about  the  slender  figure 
that  swayed  as  it  stood ;  then  he  swung  himself 
into  the  saddle  again,  and,  stooping,  caught  her 
hands  in  both  of  his. 

"Can  you  put  your  foot  on  my  boot?  "  he  asked. 
"  Nay,  then,  by  this  mound.  So  —  now  in  my  arms  ! 
(On,  Bess  !)  You  are  not  afraid  ?  Courage,  madam, 
'tis  but  a  few  yards  to  my  house,  to  warmth  and 
shelter!" 

His  arms  still  shook  with  excitement  as  he  grasped 
the  muffled  figure  and  the  reins  as  best  he  might. 
And  the  mare  slowly  lifted  her  heavy  hoofs  stable- 
ward  again. 

His  frenzy  lest  his  chance  should  escape,  his  evil 
joy  over  his  prize,  burned  like  fire  in  his  veins.  And 
something  of  his  blood  heat  seemed  to  pass  into  the 
half-frozen  woman.  She  stirred  with  more  vitality 
in  his  grasp,  settled  herself  with  more  definite  voli- 
tion on  the  mare's  broad  shoulder,  and  heaved  a 
sigh  of  returning  energy.  Suddenly  she  started; 
and  he  clutched  her,  alarmed. 


Farrant  Chace  63 

"My  servants  !"  she  said,  and  turned  her  head  so 
that  her  breath  fanned  his  cheeks.  Her  dilated  eyes 
were  close  to  his  in  the  snow-light. 

"Madam?"  He  held  her  the  tighter  and  urged 
forward. 

"My  servants,  sir,"  she  repeated,  a  thrill  of 
impatience  running  through  her  quick  utterance. 
"They  will  return  to  find  me  gone!" 

"Why,  then,"  he  made  answer,  driving  his  heels 
into  their  steed's  bulging  sides,  "I  will  even  send 
presently  to  the  coach,  and  warn  them  of  your 
safety.  .  .  .  They  will  be  welcome  likewise.  .  .  . 
But  we  must  go  on  —  yonder  is  my  gate  —  a  very 
little  while  and  you  shall  be  by  the  fireside." 

As  he  turned  off  the  road  he  cast  a  look  backward 
down  the  slope  and  noticed  a  brace  of  yellow  lights 
bobbing  through  the  misty  white  of  the  valley: 
the  traveller's  servants  were  returning  with  succour. 
Not  a  minute  too  much  had  fate  granted  him ! 
But  are  not  the  ready  ever  the  successful  ? 

His  boyish  face  was  astir  with  silent  laughter  as  he 
gathered  the  lady  into  his  arms  upon  the  threshold 
of  his  own  doorstep. 


Ill 

THE   RANSOM 

Rockhurst  was  roused  from  deep  reverie  by  the 
opening  of  the  door.  His  mind  had  been  far  indeed 
from  Farrant  Chace  and  his  own  unprofitable 
present  existence  —  as  far  away  as  the  days  of 
youth;  days  of  inspiration  and  hope;  of  delicate 
illusion  even  in  sorrow ;  days  of  strife,  when  loyalty 
was  an  exquisite  passion,  and  the  blood  that  ran  in 
his  veins  sang  to  shed  itself  for  his  King !  Days 
when  friendship  was  near  and  dear  as  love,  and  love 
itself  the  golden  fruit  of  an  endless  mystery.  He 
was  of  those  who  grasp  at  life  with  both  hands. 
None  had  brought  a  younger  heart  to  his  youth ;  no 
man  faced  his  fulfilled  manhood  with  less  illusion. 
He  had  wanted  much,  he  had  received  much,  he  had 
taken  much  —  and  all  had  failed  him. 

He  raised  his  head  and  stared,  almost  as  if  he  were 
dreaming,  at  the  two  who  entered  upon  his  brooding 
solitude;  two  that  might  have  come  upon  him  out 
of  that  long-past  youth  —  the  lad  with  the  face  of 

64 


Farrant  Chace  65 

the  friend  he  had  loved,  and  this  vision  of  young 
womanhood,  whose  beauty  shone  like  a  pearl  from 
the  dark  setting  of  her  hood.  But  as  soon  as  Paul 
Farrant  spoke  the  spell  was  broken. 

"A  ransom,  my  lord  —  a  ransom  out  of  the  snow  !" 

The  twist  of  the  speaker's  lip,  the  glint  of  his  eye, 
gave  triumphant  meaning  to  the  words. 

Rockhurst  rose  from  his  chair,  the  weary  look 
returning  to  his  face.  Here,  after  all,  was  but  the 
degenerate  son  of  the  man  whose  blood  had  been  his 
own  baptism  to  noble  sorrow.  And  the  sapling 
slight  creature  with  virginal  eyes  and  soft  lips  who 
was  leaning  upon  Paul  Farrant's  arm?  Why  — 
she  was  but  his  ransom  !  —  Nay,  these  were  no  longer 
the  days  of  white-souled  Falkland,  or  generous 
Hampden,  days  of  chivalrous  if  hopeless  devotion  to 
ideals :  these  were  the  days  of  the  merry  Monarch, 
where  none  could  feel  a  higher  sweet  than  Pleasure, 
nor  feel  a  deeper  pang  than  Envy.  .  .  .  How 
far  away  the  days  of  Youth  ! 

She  was  but  his  ransom  !  And  the  young  man's 
words  of  promise,  which  had  seemed  so  empty  when 
they  were  pronounced,  "we  may  not  be  so  destitute 
of  entertaining  company  at  Farrant  Chace  as  your 
lordship  deems,"  came  back  to  his  mind,  and  with  a 
new,  cynical  meaning.     Fair  company  in  sooth  !  But, 

F 


66  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

how,  here  "out  of  the  snow,"  lured  by  what  prospect 
of  light  amusement,  what  offered  guerdon,  he  could 
only  surmise.  Possibly  some  traveller  from  the  inn, 
ready  with  all  the  ease  of  these  times  to  snatch  at 
pleasure  where  it  offered  itself.  .  .  . 

A  lady,  by  every  movement  of  eye  and  limb.  A 
lady  !  Bah  !  was  it  not  the  fashion  among  ladies 
now  to  be  as  eager  of  base  adventure  as  the  gallants 
themselves  ? 

He  stood  on  one  side  while,  with  an  exaggerated 
gallantry,  Farrant  conducted  the  stranger  to  Rock- 
hurst's  just  vacated  seat,  helped  her  to  loosen  her 
cloak,  and  pressed  some  wine  upon  her  from  the 
neglected  goblets  on  the  table. 

When  the  lady  had  sipped,  and  returned  the  glass 
into  his  hand,  she  spoke  at  last. 

"I  thank  you,"  she  said,  smiling.  "But,  my 
servants  ...    ?" 

Her  voice  was  a  little  faint  and  plaintive  yet,  from 
the  numbing  of  the  cold,  but  it  had  a  grave  ring  in 
it  that  fell  pleasantly  on  Rockhurst's  fastidious  ear. 

"  Another  taste,  madam ;  we  will  inquire  about 
your  servants  anon.  The  mistress  must  first  be 
waited  upon,"  cried  young  Paul,  all  agog  in  osten- 
tatious attendance,  and  ever  flinging  a  restless  glance 
of  inquiry  at  his  Rockhurst.     "  Fie !    Your  cloak 


Farrant  Chace  67 

is  heavy  with  wet.  Let  me  move  these  dripping 
folds  away  from  you.  And  your  feet,  oh,  I  protest !" 
He  was  down  on  his  knees  now,  his  young  head 
glinting  in  the  glow  as  he  bent  assiduously  over  his 
new  task.     "Your  feet  —  ice!" 

Even  as  he  spoke,  he  drew  the  little  doeskin 
shoe  from  her  foot;  and,  as  she  instinctively  lifted 
it  toward  the  blaze,  knelt  back  so  that  Rockhurst 
might  see  the  firelight  play  upon  its  delicate  shape. 

The  warmth  of  the  wine  and  of  the  hearth  had 
stirred  her  chilled  blood.  A  flush,  like  the  tint  of  a 
seashell,  crept  into  her  face ;  into  her  dazed  eyes 
appeared  a  light  to  which  the  blue  shadows  of 
weariness  on  the  lids  gave  a  singular  brilliancy ; 
she  very  simply  stretched  her  other  foot  for  the 
kindly  office. 

As  Farrant  rose  at  last,  with  the  second  shoe 
dangling  in  his  hand,  his  exultation  broke  out.  He 
drew  close,  and  whispered  :  — 

"Say,  my  lord,  shall  we  not  be  right  well  enter- 
tained to-night?" 

"We?"  echoed  Rockhurst,  aloud. 

The  single  contemptuous  exclamation  fell  like 
the  cut  of  a  whip.  He  turned,  and  bowing  to  the 
visitor,  who  had  turned  startled  eyes  toward  him :  — 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "I  heard  you  express  some 


68  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

anxiety  about  your  attendants.  Our  young  friend 
Is  about  to  fulfil  your  request  .  .  .  whatever  it 
may  be.  —  Go,"  added  he,  turning  upon  the  dis- 
concerted youth.  And  as  Farrant  hesitated  he  took 
a  swift  step  nearer  to  him,  and  whispered  in  his 
turn,  "  Go  —  to  the  devil  or  where  you  will,  so  long 
as  it  is  out  of  this  1" 

His  eye  commanded  more  insolently  yet  than 
his  words.  The  young  man  fell  back,  flung  a  look  of 
hesitation  toward  the  crumpled  notes  on  the  table; 
another  glance  at  the  lady,  his  fair  treasure-trove. 
Then,  with  a  meaning  smile,  he  bowed  profoundly, 
so  that  all  his  shining  curls  fell  over  his  face,  and 
withdrew. 

Rockhurst  caught  the  smile  and  the  look;  and 
the  memory  of  a  dead  face,  that  of  his  old  brother  in 
arms,  the  boy's  father,  in  its  last  stern  serenity  rose 
up  before  him.  His  own  eyes  were  hard  as  he  looked 
again  upon  the  woman  who  had  been  found  so 
promptly  willing  to  come  and  relieve  the  tedium 
of  his  snow-bound  evening. 

Diana  Harcourt,  with  the  return  of  physical  com- 
fort about  her,  had  begun  to  feel  a  strange  uneasiness 
gather  in  her  mind.  Country-bred,  and  country- 
wed  to  an  old  man  who  had  little  taste  for  company, 
she  had  yet  had  some  opportunities  of  learning  the 


The  single  contemptuous  exclamation  fell  like  the  cut  of  a  whip. 


Farrant  Chace  69 

way  of  courts;  she,  for  instance,  had  no  doubt 
that  the  youth  who  had  saved  her  from  the  snow 
was  of  gentle  birth,  and  that  this  grave-looking 
being,  with  whom  she  now  found  herself  alone  in  the 
strange,  silent  house,  was  a  very  fine  gentleman 
indeed.  Nevertheless,  something  singular,  some- 
thing not  quite  open,  clandestine  almost,  in  the 
situation  began  to  force  itself  upon  her.  What 
was  the  relationship  between  these  two  men?  The 
eyes  of  the  elder,  who  might  have  been  the  other's 
father,  were  cold  to  dislike  as  he  had  gazed  upon  him. 
And  the  young  man's  febrile  excitement  came  back 
upon  her  memory  with  an  impression  of  distaste 
amounting  to  repulsion.  What  had  lurked  behind 
his  smile,  his  furtive,  appraising  glance?  She 
recalled  how  innocently  she  had  allowed  him  to 
touch  her  feet,  and,  flushing  hotly,  she  cast  her 
mantle  over  them  and  turned  her  head  with  a  little 
movement,  at  once  dignified  and  shy,  to  gaze  upon 
Rockhurst.  But  suspicion  fell  from  her  on  the 
instant.  —  Noble-looking,  grave,  high-bred,  old 
enough  to  be  her  own  father,  what  could  she  have 
to  fear  ? 

"Sir,"  she  said  boldly,  "will  you  not  have  the 
kindness  now  to  tell  me  where  I  am,  and  with 
whom?" 


7o  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Rockhurst  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  him  down,  de- 
liberately facing  her.  Then  he  crossed  his  fine  white 
hands  upon  his  knee,  letting  his  eyes  rest  upon  hers. 

"Madam,"  he  said  at  last,  "do  you  not  hear  how 
the  wind  begins  again  to  moan  outside?  I  warrant 
you,  behind  the  thick  walls  of  this  old  house  the  snow 
is  whirling  in  great  white  drifts.  It  must  be  parlous 
cold  without.  Here,  madam,  the  firelight  is  rosy; 
do  you  not  think  we  are  very  well  together?  'Tis 
a  quaint  hour,  stolen  from  dull  old  Time's  grudging 
casket.  We  do  not  know  each  other  —  why, 
that  has  a  marvellous  charm  of  its  own !  Let  us 
not  dispel  it.  We  may  never  meet  again ;  and  to- 
morrow you  go  back  ...  to  the  white  snow. 
And  I  to  the  fever  of  the  town.  And  that,  perhaps, 
will  be  well,  too." 

Her  eyes  dilated  as  she  listened,  scarce  with  fear, 
but  again  with  the  unexplained  foreboding. 

"Sir,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "your  words  are  very 
strange ;  I  do  not  understand  them." 

"My  dear,"  said  Rockhurst,  his  languid  lids 
drooping  a  little  now  over  the  first  keenness  of  his 
gaze,  which  seemed  to  narrow  his  scrutiny  to  some- 
thing cruel  as  a  blade,  "I  have  just  said  it,  'tis  a 
dull  world.  Will  you  complain  of  its  strangeness 
once  in  a  way?     Why  have  you  covered  up  your 


F arrant  Chace  71 

pretty  foot  ?  I  vow  I  thought  of  Diana  in  the  wood- 
land glades  when  I  saw  the  arch  of  its  instep." 
And,  saying  this,  he  opened  his  brilliant  glance 
once  more  full  upon  her.  ''Diana  did  I  say?"  he 
cried.  "Nay,  no  cold  goddess!  Far  from  me  the 
omen !  .  .  .  A  nymph.  Aurora,  with  the  sun  in 
her  hair,  and  all  the  roses  in  her  cheeks  !" 

The  blood  which  had  rushed  violently  to  Diana 
Harcourt's  temples  ebbed  away  as  quickly,  leaving 
her  white  as  the  drifts  without. 

These  were,  no  doubt,  but  idle  words  of  gallantry ; 
and  all  her  woman's  instinctive  pride  warned  her 
against  the  shame  of  seeming  to  attach  any  other 
significance  to  them.  Yet  whether  glinting  between 
half-closed  lids  or  widely  open  upon  her,  the  man's 
eyes  seemed  to  her  to  have  some  terrible,  some  mer- 
ciless thought  in  them  —  a  thought  strangely  at 
variance  with  the  dignity  of  his  appearance,  the 
gravity,  almost  the  sadness  of  his  countenance; 
horribly  at  variance  with  the  grey  which  besprinkled 
the  raven  of  his  locks. 

"I  am  not  of  the  town,  and  not  accustomed  to 
fine  speeches  and  compliments.  ..." 

She  framed  the  phrase  in  pitiful  attempt  to  stem 
the  panic  that  was  gaining  upon  her.  He  still  sat 
motionless,  his  hands  crossed,  half  smiling. 


72  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Sir,"  she  cried,  now  angrily,  "are  there  no  women 
in  this  place?  Will  you  not,  in  courtesy,  allow  me 
the  company  of  one,  till  my  servants  arrive?" 

"My  dear,"  he  answered  her  sarcastically,  "will 
my  company  not  really  suffice?  " 

Rockhurst  had  had  Heaven  or  Hades  knew  what 
vast  experience  of  women,  of  the  women  of  Second 
Charles's  Court,  whether  in  exile  or  in  Whitehall. 
Scarce  a  challenging  beauty  of  the  posy  that  he  had 
not  measured  swords  with;  and,  as  the  practised 
fencer  will,  he  knew  every  trick  of  the  play,  every  line 
of  assault  and  defence,  every  feint  and  every  parry. 
And  women,  being  proverbially  unfair  fighters,  pretty 
dears !  he  had  a  smile  as  well  as  a  wary  eye  for 
the  tricky  pass  and  the  treacherous  thrust.  Of  all 
the  feints,  that  of  innocence  in  straits,  of  outraged 
modesty,  was  the  most  elementary.  This  divine 
young  creature  with  the  copper-glowing  hair  and  the 
wide-dilating  eyes ;  whose  blood  ran  so  richly  and  so 
quickly ;  who  had  come  in  leaning  familiarly  on  the 
arm  of  that  prince  of  petty  rakes,  Paul  Farrant, 
come  willingly,  it  seemed,  across  the  snows,  to  his 
bidding;  who  had  suffered  herself  to  be  unshod  with 
all  the  unblushing  ease  of  any  Whitehall  coquette  — 
why,  if  it  now  pleased  her  to  play  the  pretty  Puritan, 
he  had  no  objection,  save  that,  as  he  knew  himself, 


F arrant  Chace  73 

he  was  apt  to  be  swiftly  wearied.  The  spark  of 
interest  kindled  by  her  unaccustomed  kind  of  beauty, 
by  the  something  fresh  and  of  the  woodland  about 
her,  by  the  utter  unexpectedness  of  her  appearance 
and  the  mystery  it  pleased  him  she  should  maintain, 
would  so  soon  flicker  out.  In  love,  as  in  war,  he 
had  but  one  method  —  straight  ahead.  In  war  he 
had  been  beaten  back  sometimes;   in  love,  never. 

"Come,"  he  said,  sitting  up  at  last  and  slowly 
stretching  out  one  hand.  "Come,  Diana,  since 
Diana  you  will  be."  (Again  she  started  on  hearing 
herself  unwittingly  called  by  her  real  name.)  "Be 
Diana,  if  you  please,  to  me.  What  if  I  am  no  Endym- 
ion?  Bah,  my  dear  goddess,"  and  he  drew  his 
lean  frame  out  of  the  chair  and  came  over  to  her 
with  the  same  deliberate  grace,  "that  was  a  little 
mistake  of  yours  to  be  so  ready  to  stoop  to  yonder 
youth !  Endymion  is  but  a  callow  rascal,  a  green- 
horn. When  such  beings  as  you  descend  from  your 
high  celestial  ways  it  should  be  for  a  man  !  Come, 
do  you  wish  me  to  kneel  at  your  feet,  as  your  shep- 
herd did  even  now?     I  will,  an'  it  please  you." 

His  arms  were  almost  about  her,  when,  with  a  fierce 
movement,  she  sprang  up  and  thrust  him  from  her. 

"In  the  name  of  God,"  she  cried,  "into  what  trap 
have  I  fallen?" 


74  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Nay,  do  not  scream,"  he  said,  at  one  step  placing 
himself  between  her  and  the  door,  and  catching  her 
wrist,  without  roughness,  but  with  that  steel-like 
grasp  she  had  instinctively  divined  under  his  gentle 
movements.  "Let  us  clear  this  strange  matter 
between  us  two,  madam.  —  Answer  you  first : 
What  purpose  had  you  in  coming  here  to-night?" 

"I?"  she  flashed  back  at  him,  panting.  "Pur- 
pose?—  Purpose,  sir?  .  .  .  That  young  man 
found  me  in  the  snow,  the  coach  had  foundered,  my 
servants  ridden  away  for  help,  I  was  perished  from 
cold.  Purpose  ?  Let  me  go,  sir.  Rather  the  snow  ! 
Oh,  let  me  hence  from  your  horrible  house !" 

He  released  her  and  stood  looking  at  her  in  silence. 
Again,  even  in  her  turmoil  of  terror  and  passion,  she 
was  struck  by  the  extraordinary  dignity  of  his  air. 
But  to  look  thus,  and  to  act  thus ! 

"Oh,  shame,"  she  said;  "you  who  might  be  my 
father!" 

A  swift  shadow  came  over  his  countenance,  then 
passed,  leaving  it  set  into  marble  impassivity.  His 
eyelids  drooped.  Forgetting  her  cloak  on  the  chair, 
forgetting  her  shoeless  feet,  she  thought  she  saw  her 
chance,  and  made  a  rush  for  the  door;  but  he 
arrested  her  with  a  gesture. 

"No!"    he    said    authoritatively.     Then,    fixing 


Farrant  Chace  75 

his  eyes  upon  her  with  an  altered  look :  "No,  child," 
he  repeated.  His  voice  was  as  much  changed  as  his 
gaze.  Gone  from  it  the  dangerous,  even  silkiness 
of  his  first  speeches  to  her,  as  well  as  the  quick 
sternness  of  the  last  words.  This  new  voice,  some- 
thing said  to  her,  was  the  voice  of  the  real  self  that 
matched  the  noble  countenance. 

He  put  out  his  hand.  After  a  pause  she  put  hers 
on  it.  Later  she  wondered  at  herself  that  she  had 
done  so.  But  there  are  moments  when  some  poig- 
nant emotion  tears  away  the  bodily  mask,  when 
souls  are  suddenly  laid  bare  to  each  other.  For 
some  of  us  that  is  the  moment  when  our  belief  in 
all  that  is  good  and  beautiful  dies.  But  Diana,  in 
that  flashing  look  into  the  soul  of  this  unknown 
man  (who  had  yet,  within  so  short  a  measure  of  time, 
insulted  her)  read  that  to  which  her  own  soul  leaped. 
The  storm  subsided  in  her  heart.  She  suffered  him 
to  conduct  her  back  to  the  chair  by  the  fire,  and 
watched  him  —  wonderingly,  yet  no  longer  with 
fear  —  as  he  straightened  himself  and,  with  folded 
arms,  stood  yet  a  little  while  contemplating  her. 

In  the  hawk's  eyes  there  was  a  softened  shadow. 
As  he  gazed  the  shadow  deepened  into  tenderness.  — 
He  was  looking  at  her  as  the  exile  might  look  at  the 
receding  shore  of  the  land  he  will  never  see  again; 


-()  "  My  Merry  Rockhursl  " 

with  a  yearning  that  has  passed  beyond  despair, 
and  so  grown  serene.  At  length,  sighing,  he  roused 
himself,  and  came  forward,  pushed  the  heavy  table 
closer  to  her,  and  brought  within  her  reach  some  of 
the  viands  that  were  spread  upon  it. 

"You  must  cat,"  he  said.  And,  as  she  lifted 
her  eyes  again  with  her  childlike,  questioning  look, 
his  lips  parted  in  a  smile  she  thought  beautiful, 
upon  the  gravity  of  his  countenance:  "You  have 
not  done  with  journeying  yet  to-night,"  he  explained. 

He  moved  to  the  window  as  he  spoke;  and,  as 
he  drew  the  curtains  aside,  there  came  into  the  ruddy 
brown  room  a  vision  of  a  moonlit  fairy  world. 

"There,  too,  I  was  wrong,  you  see,"  he  went  on, 
speaking  over  his  shoulder;  "the  snow-storms  are 
passed,  and  there  is  your  sister  moon  to  show  you 
the  way  —  Diana."  Then,  coming  back  again  to 
the  table,  "You  asked  for  a  woman's  company.  In 
this  house  there  is  no  company  fit  for  you." 

Her  eyelid  flickered  over  her  startled  glance. 
She  gave  a  quick  cry. 

"Eat,  then,"  he  went  on  in  the  same  gentle  tone, 
"while  I  make  arrangements  for  your  instant  de- 
parture." 

The  door  was  shut  behind  him.  Diana  invol- 
untarily called   after  him;    but  his  footsteps  died 


F arrant  Chace  77 

away  in  the  empty  passages.  The  great  silence  of  the 
house  closed  about  her ;  and  in  the  solitude  her  own 
thoughts  seemed  to  clamour  and  crowd  bodily  upon 
her.  She  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  buried 
her  bright  head  in  her  hands. 

Slighted  .  .  .  insulted  .  .  .  then  served  rever- 
entially like  a  princess  .  .  .  looked  at  and  spoken 
to  like  a  beloved  child.  How  was  it  that  all  the 
anger  was  dead  in  her  heart,  and  that  in  its  place 
reigned  this  feeling  of  pain  and  incomprehensible 
joy  commingled  ?  How  was  it  that  her  fear  was 
banished,  that  she  would  have  trusted  herself  with 
him  even  in  this  house  which  his  own  lips  had  named 
evil? 


IV 

UNDER   THE   STARS 

Presently  she  again  heard  steps  without  and  rapid 
words;  then  his  voice,  uplifted  sharp  and  strong. 
She  smiled,  broke  a  piece  of  bread  and  sipped  at  the 
wine ;  she  was  safe,  she  knew,  where  he  was.  And 
she  would  eat,  if  only  because  he  bade  her. 

In  a  few  minutes  Rockhurst  returned.  He  was 
now  booted  to  the  thigh,  and  carried  a  cloak  on  his 
arm.  Once  more  he  sat  down  facing  her.  His  eye 
fell  on  the  discarded  shoes;  he  bent  down  and  felt 
them. 

"They  are  nearly  dry,"  he  said,  and  lifted  them 
closer  to  the  flame.  "In  a  little  while  you  must  be 
ready.  You  will  have  to  ride  on  the  same  rustic 
steed  that  brought  you,  but  I  will  see  that  she  carries 
you  to  safety."  He  paused  a  second  or  two,  then 
added:  "The  inn  — a  very  well-known,  reputable 
place  —  is  not  far  distant;  and  you  will  doubtless 
hear  of  your  servants  there.  Our  young  host,"  he 
hesitated,  and  his  voice  seemed  to  harden,  "  tells  me 

7« 


F arrant  Chace  79 

that,  even  as  he  rode  with  you  into  the  avenue,  folk 
were  hastening  to  your  rescue  from  that  direction." 

Diana's  glance  still  questioned,  but  she  dared  not 
put  the  question  into  words.  What,  then,  had  the 
young  man  with  the  narrow  eyes  and  the  uneasy 
glance  meant  by  her?  And  how,  if  he  had  had 
some  dark  purpose,  had  she  been  thrust  upon  this 
other  and  left  to  his  mercy  ?  Ah,  and  what  had  this 
other  at  first  fancied  to  see  in  her  ?  The  blood  surged 
to  her  cheeks,  her  lips  trembled.  Rockhurst  held 
her  under  his  eye.  As  if  in  answer  to  her  thoughts 
he  bent  down. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  but  how  differently  the  words, 
a  while  ago  insolently  familiar,  were  now  spoken; 
"  this  is  no  house  for  you.  It  must  never  be  breathed 
of  one  such  as  you  that  you  have  been  under  its 
roof  —  with  one  such  as  me.  You  said  you  did  not 
know  the  ways  of  us  of  the  Court  —  pray  God  you 
may  never  know  them  !" 

Here  he  was  silent  again,  his  eye  resting  thought- 
fully upon  her  hands,  unadorned  save  for  a  single 
posy  ring. 

"When  you  marry,"  he  went  on  then,  as  with  an 
effort,  "keep  in  the  sweet  country,  and  of  a  surety," 
a  sad  smile  flickered  upon  his  lip,  "your  lord  will 
gladly  keep  there,  too." 


80  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

She  lifted  her  head  with  a  quick  impulse ;  her  mouth 
parted  to  speak.  But  an  inexplicable,  invincible  re- 
luctance to  tell  him  she  was  already  wed  thrust  back 
the  words. 

Rockhurst  turned,  and  taking  the  loose  pieces 
of  paper  from  the  table,  gazed  at  them  thoughtfully 
for  a  moment,  and  thrust  them  into  his  pocket. 
Then  he  rose,  and  almost  gaily :  — 

"Come,  madam,"  he  said,  "your  palfrey  waits  in 
the  cold.  Put  on  your  shoes."  As  he  spoke  he 
took  down  his  sword  and  buckled  it  on. 

She  went  forth  with  him,  her  finger-tips  lightly 
in  his  hold,  without  a  word,  through  the  passages 
of  the  lone  house,  through  the  hall.  The  door, 
open  to  the  night,  cut  a  square,  brilliant  silver  upon 
the  inner  dimness.  Cold,  pure  airs  rushed  against 
them. 

The  mare,  black,  steaming,  stood  patiently,  her 
bridle  hitched  to  a  post.  There  was  not  a  sound  of 
another  living  thing,  it  seemed,  in  all  the  white- 
shrouded  land.  She  rested  one  hand  on  the  saddle- 
cloth, lifted  her  foot  for  his  service,  and  he  swung 
her  up  with  practised  ease.  She  felt  the  strength 
of  a  steel  bow  in  his  arm.  He  folded  her  in  a  huge 
horseman's  cloak;  then,  without  a  word,  took  the 
bridle  to  walk  by  her  side. 


F arrant  Chace  81 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully.  Had  she  dared,  she 
would  have  invited  him  to  share  the  saddle.  But, 
dark  and  grave,  he  went  beside  her,  and  the  silence 
held  them. 

They  moved  as  in  a  dream  through  a  dreamland 
of  beauty,  a  white  purity  beyond  expression.  Above, 
in  the  pine  trees,  the  wind  choired;  far  out  over 
the  waste  it  sighed.  Somewhere  very  far  away,  yet 
strangely  distinct,  Christmas  joy  bells  were  ringing. 

The  starry  sky  that  domed  this  wonderful  world 
was  still  more  wonderful.  Diana  neither  felt  the 
cold,  nor  measured  the  space  she  traversed,  nor  the 
flight  of  time.  She  was  another  self;  she  would 
have  asked  no  greater  boon  than  to  journey  on 
through  all  this  splendour,  with  the  vision  of  his  face 
cut  in  grave  beauty  against  the  white  world,  to  meet 
the  glance  of  his  watchful  eye  now  and  again,  to 
have  the  touch  of  his  hand,  kind  and  steady,  upon 
her  knee,  when  the  road  was  rougher  and  the  mare 
stumbled.  She  knew  that  at  that  unknown  inn  door, 
down  in  the  valley,  would  come  the  parting,  and  her 
heart  contracted. 

The  little  village  seemed  asleep.     The  inn  itself 
looked  deep  in  slumber,  with  barred  windows,  its 


82  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

every  gable  huddled  under  the  thick  blanket  of 
snow;  only  a  wreathing  smoke  from  the  chimney- 
stack  to  tell  of  some  watchfulness  within. 

Rockhurst  knocked,  masterfully,  sonorously. 
Then  turning,  the  rein  slung  over  his  arm,  he  leaned 
against  a  pillar  of  the  porch,  removed  his  hat,  and 
looked  up  smiling  at  her.  There  came  sounds, 
answering  sounds,  indoor.     Then  he  spoke :  — 

"Thank  you,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  thank  me?"     Her  voice  shook  a  little. 

"Thank  you,"  he  repeated,  "for  having  shown 
me,  once  more,  a  vision  of  my  youth  such  as  I  never 
thought  to  know  again  !" 

The  bars  were  now  heard  grating  against  the 
closed  door.  Rockhurst  took  a  step  forward. 
She  read  farewell  in  his  eyes ;  and,  flinging  out  both 
her  hands,  almost  with  a  sob  :  — 

"Ah,  but  shall  we  not  meet  again?"  she  said 
pleadingly.  "  Your  name  ?  Mine  —  nay,  you  know 
it  already.     It  is  indeed  Diana.     Diana — " 

But  he  interrupted  her  with  a  quick  gesture. 

"Hush!  My  name?  No,  it  is  a  name  of  no 
good  report,  and  I  would  not  have  it  dwell  in  your 
mind.  And  yours — it  were  best  I  should  not 
know  it.  .  .  ."  Then,  after  a  slight  pause: 
"You  come  as  a  dream  to  me,  you  go  as  a  dream, 


Farrant  Chace  83 

perfect,  sweet,  beyond  words.  We  shall  never  meet 
again,  Diana." 

The  inn  doors  were  slowly  drawing  apart.  He 
lifted  his  arms  to  help  her  down,  held  her  a  second 
between  them  to  steady  her,  then,  putting  her  gently 
aside,  sprang  into  the  saddle  and  forthwith  spurred 
the  mare  to  her  heavy  trot. 

And  Diana,  looking  after  them,  saw  rider  and 
mount  passing  from  her,  black  against  the  snow. 
He  never  turned  his  head.  She  stood,  bewilder- 
ment in  her  mind,  pain  at  her  heart. 

" God-a-mercy,  madam,  'tis  you!"  cried  the 
familiar  voice  of  her  old  servant  in  her  ear.  "In 
the  Lord's  name,  madam,  where  have  you  been?" 
old  Geoffrey  was  tremblingly  questioning. 

She  started,  looked  round  at  him  as  one  suddenly 
awakened.  Was  it  all  indeed  a  dream  of  the  snow? 
she  asked  herself,  as  the  sheltering  doors  of  the 
Anchor,  at  Liphook,  closed  upon  her. 

The  sudden  spurt  of  old  Bess  the  mare  soon 
gave  place  to  her  usual  jog.  Through  the  silent 
snow  she  carried  her  rider  back  to  the  door  of  Farrant 
Chace.  The  rhythmic  jingle  of  her  bit,  the  monoto- 
nous muffled  plunge  of  her  hoofs,  the  wail  of  the 
wind   over   the   down,    seemed   to   point   the   wide 


84  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

stillness,  even  as  the  sparse  black  firs  pointed  the 
immense  whiteness  of  the  waste. 

Rockhurst  stepped  in  again  into  the  warmth  of 
the  parlour,  snow  sodden  on  his  boots,  hoar  frost 
pricking  his  hair,  and  found  Paul  Farrant. 

To  the  young  man's  frenzied  anxiety  it  seemed 
interminable  nights  that  he  had  been  thus  waiting, 
waiting  for  release  or  doom;  nights  that  he  had 
paced  the  brown  parlour  from  end  to  end ;  that  he 
had  stood  shivering  in  the  window  recess,  gazing 
out  upon  the  white  emptiness,  straining  his  ears  for 
a  sound  of  life  in  the  awful  stillness.  The  uncer- 
tainty of  Rockhurst's  moods,  of  his  intentions,  the 
mystery  that  had  to-night  surrounded  his  move- 
ments, added  to  the  waiting  misery.  To  what 
end  had  Rakehell  set  forth,  at  midnight  through  the 
snow,  with  the  lady  whom  he  had  so  cynically  re- 
ceived ?  Was  it  a  sudden  whim  of  chivalrous  cour- 
tesy? His  scorching  anger  upon  their  last  brief 
meeting  might  lead  him  to  that  preposterous  con- 
clusion —  Knight  Errant  Rakehell,  out  through  the 
snowdrifts  on  a  farm  mare  for  the  sake  of  country 
virtue  !  (What  tale  might  he  not  make  of  it  for 
supper  merriment  at  Whitehall !)  Or  Rakehell, 
jealous  of  his  host's  fair  looks  and  smooth  cheek, 


F arrant  Chace  85 

carrying   off   elsewhere    the    prize    of    grace    and 
beauty.  .  .  . 

At  such  a  point  Farrant's  uneasy  tread  would 
lead  him  back  to  the  hearth,  to  seek  vain  comfort 
by  the  embers,  to  fling  fresh  logs  on  the  reddening 
pile.  What  was  he  to  do  if  Rockhurst  were  to  pass 
away  from  his  road  like  this?  Dare  he,  so  long  as 
those  damning  notes  were  in  that  pitiless  hold,  ever 
present  himself  within  earshot  of  Court  ? 

Then  all  at  once,  as  he  sat  staring  into  his  uncertain 
future,  his  guest  was  back  upon  him  —  those  were 
his  steps  without,  that  was  his  hand  on  the  latch ! 
Farrant  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  flung  a  look  of 
piteous  inquiry  at  the  great  lord's  face. 

Rockhurst  did  not  speak.  He  went  to  the  hearth 
and  stood  for  an  appreciable  pause  gazing  at  the 
lad ;  in  his  eyes  there  was  none  of  the  former  scorn  — 
nothing  but  a  kind  of  sad  wonder.  Then,  deliber- 
ately, he  drew  the  damning  slips  of  paper  from  his 
pocket,  turned,  and,  one  by  one,  with  a  musing  air, 
threw  them  into  the  fire. 

Farrant  drew  a  quivering  breath  of  relief.  The 
"debt  of  honour"  was  cancelled. 


THE  ENIGMA  OF  THE  LOCKET 


THE  ENIGMA  OF  THE  LOCKET 


LITTLE  SATAN 

Enguerrand  de  Joncelles — Monsieur  le  Vidame 
de  Joncelles,  as  he  preferred  to  be  called  —  was 
new  to  courts.  To  the  court  of  Whitehall,  la  cour 
de  Witalle  he  had  it,  he  was  yet  altogether  a  stranger. 

From  the  noble  monotony  of  Joncelles,  the  great 
poverty-stricken  chateau  which  raised  its  pepper- 
box turrets  above  meagre  apple  orchards,  a  league 
south  of  Caen,  to  the  excitement  of  the  Louvre  and 
Versailles;  from  the  rigidity  of  the  maternal  rule 
at  home  (in  her  retirement,  Madame  de  Joncelles, 
a  confidant  and  friend  of  the  late  Queen  Mother  of 
France,  had  never  compromised  on  matters  of 
discipline,  and  had  cherished  theories  on  the  educa- 
tion of  young  men)  to  complete  emancipation  —  here 
had  been  steps  high  enough  to  upset  the  balance 
of  any  quick-blooded  and  good-looking  youth  of 
eighteen.  But  the  Little  Vidame  had  found  his  feet, 
as  the  saying  goes,  with  astonishing  ease,  as  soon  as 

89 


90  "  My  Merry  Rockhursl  " 

the  austere  old  lady,  departing  for  a  better  world, 
left  him  to  face  this  one  by  himself. 

The  new  mourning  had  scarce  had  time  to  be  fitted 
to  his  comely  figure  before  the  whole  youth  himself 
had  become  a  different  being.  There  are  some 
whom  a  single  glass  of  wine  intoxicates ;  Engucr- 
rand  de  Joncelles  was  intoxicated  at  the  very  first 
sip  of  life.  .  .  .  Such  a  flutter  of  silk  and  curls; 
such  constellations  of  eyes,  brilliant  or  melting  or 
mockingly  challenging ;  such  lightning  of  wit ;  such 
whispers,  such  sighs  !  In  one  day  he  had  learned  to 
return,  with  interest,  an  eeillade  that,  within  the 
precincts  of  Caen  Cathedral,  would  have  made 
him  drop  a  modest  lid  —  and  set  him  dreaming  for 
a  week.  Within  a  very  little  while  more  he  had 
mastered  the  art  of  capturing  a  soft  hand  and  holding 
it  hidden  in  tender  pressure,  the  while  presenting 
a  decorous  front  to  stately  company.  He  had  also 
learned  to  look  down  in  the  right  measure  of  disdain 
upon  the  burgher;  to  bandy,  in  all  delicacy,  auda- 
cious pleasantry  with  his  equals  on  the  Grand  Stair- 
case of  the  Louvre,  or  in  the  Galerie  de  I'CEil-de- 
Bceuf.  He  could  whip  out  his  new-mode  small- 
sword with  as  swift  a  grace  as  the  best  noted  rufHer. 
He  was  able  to  be  more  obviously  dazzled  by  the 
splendour    of    the    Roy-Soleil   than    many    a    past- 


The  Enigma  of  the  Locket  91 

master  sycophant  —  withal  cultivating  a  fine  insen- 
sibility of  outward  aspect,  keeping  the  delicate 
beauty  of  his  features  set  as  in  a  fine  white  mask, 
his  voice  low-toned  —  only  now  and  again  permitting 
the  wide-pupilled  black  eyes  to  betray  by  a  flash  the 
constant  alertness  of  the  inner  mind. 

These  demure  airs  gave  a  singular  piquancy  to  the 
boldness  of  his  words  and  deeds,  one  which  was  not 
without  its  special  effect  in  that  court  of  solemn 
sham  and  wearisome  etiquette.  Heaven  only  knows 
where  the  precious  only  son  of  Madame  de  Joncelles 
had  found  such  sudden  knowledge  of  the  world, 
such  astuteness  and  such  recklessness  combined.  It 
was  a  merciful  Providence  that  spared  his  pious 
mother  the  sight  of  the  ultimate  blossoming  of  her 
carefully  pruned  young  tree  ! 

Attached  (together  with  his  sister,  Madame  de 
Mantes,  a  noted  beauty  of  Versailles)  to  the  train 
of  Madame  Henriette  d'Orleans,  on  the  occasion  of 
that  princess's  first  journey  to  England  since  the 
happy  restoration  of  her  royal  brother,  he  now  was 
ushered  to  the  court  of  Whitehall.  What  the  apt 
youth  here  saw  and  learned  filled  him  deep  with 
surprise  —  a  surprise,  however,  which  he  was  careful 
not  to  betray.  Beyond  doubt  it  was  a  merry  place, 
this  court  of  Charles  —  if  its  methods  were  a  trifle 


92  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

astonishing.  Enguerrand  was  not  one  who  would 
let  pass  a  single  opportunity  for  self-instruction,  and 
now  and  again,  despite  his  impassive  attitude  where 
the  natural  acuteness  of  his  wits  failed  him,  he  con- 
descended to  ask  for  information. 

•  ••••• 

He  was  in  a  questioning  mood,  this  night  at  White- 
hall, when,  for  the  first  time,  he  was  admitted  to  the 
King's  more  private  circle.  By  good  adventure,  he 
found  himself  beside  a  gentleman  who  seemed  to 
possess  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  royal  ways 
as  well  as  an  amiable  readiness  to  impart  it.  This 
was  an  elderly  little  man  of  the  name  of  Petherick, 
who  once,  evidently,  had  been  handsome,  and  was 
still  a  la  mode.  As  Enguerrand  was  to  learn  later, 
Mr.  Petherick  justified  his  established  position  at 
Court  by  a  notable  ingenuity  in  discovering  fresh 
sources  of  amusement  for  the  easily  wearied  Charles. 
Now  the  acute  person's  eye  rested  critically  upon  the 
elegance  of  the  foreign  boy ;  his  Majesty  liked  new 
faces  and  new  fashions,  and  his  Majesty  especially 
liked  the  French. 

"Aye,"  said  Petherick,  as  if  pursuing  his  thought 
aloud,  "the  King  is  vastly  fond  of  your  country, 
Vidame  —  and  of  your  countrywomen,  just  now. 
See  —  that   divine   dark   creature    that   came   with 


The  Enigma  of  the  Locket  93 

Madame  Henriette ;  ,1've  laid  a  wager,  to  wit,  that 
her  Royal  Highness  will  have  to  leave  her  lady- 
in-waiting  behind,  when  she  returns  to  France." 

"Sir  —  you  mean,  I  see,  Madame  de  Mantes," 
said  Enguerrand,  coolly.     "My  sister." 

"  Monsieur  de  Joncelles  .  .  .  ?  Ah,  of  course,  Ma- 
dame de  Mantes  is  married.     And  M.  de  Mantes?  " 

"Say  was  married  —  happily  widowed  within  a 
few  months,"  said  the  little  Vidame,  with  elaborate 
coolness.  And  from  his  post  slightly  in  the  back- 
ground he  gazed  at  the  brilliant  royal  circle  and 
singled  out  the  familiar  dark  curly  head,  the  peach- 
like cheek,  the  childlike  lustrous  eyes  with  quite  a 
new  interest. 

Mr.  Petherick  had  too  good  an  experience  of  the 
Court  not  to  be  more  than  ever  gracious  to  a  new- 
comer, who  proved  to  be  the  brother  of  a  beauteous 
sister. 

Following  the  direction  of  the  Vidame's  eyes,  he 
pointed  out  the  personalities  of  major  importance — 
handsome  Castlemaine,  sullen  and  aggressive  to- 
night; and  fair  Stewart  with  her  childish  face  and 
her  studied  coldness  of  demeanour,  and  put  Master 
Enguerrand  au  courant  of  some  spicy  snippets. 
Buckingham  proclaimed  himself  by  his  magnifi- 
cence, his  insolence,  and  his  gaiety. 


94  "  My  Merry  Rockhnrst  " 

"  But  pray,"  put  in  the  Vidamc,  "  who  may  the  tall, 
dark  gentleman  be,  who  sits  in  such  silence  behind 
his  Majesty,  and  who,  even  when  the  King  speaks, 

seems  to  have  forgot  how  to  smile He  has 

a  handsome  presence  —  although  no  longer  young, 
at  all."  (Thus,  the  superb  arrogance  of  his  own 
springtime  !)  "  Do  you  mark,  Monsieur  Petherick, 
how  my  little  sister  keeps  seeking  his  notice  with 
languishing  eyes  —  aye,  even  with  his  Majesty's 
own  gaze  upon  her  .  .  .  the  perverse  one !  Pray, 
who  is  the  gentleman?" 

"How!"  cried  Mr.  Petherick,  "a  whole  week 
already  in  Whitehall,  and  not  yet  acquainted  with 
the  Rakehell?  Why,  sir,  it  is  our  King's  own 
familiar,  an  old  comrade  of  the  wars  and  of  exile. 
His  Majesty  can  do  nought  without  my  lord  Vis- 
count Rockhurst  —  my  merry  Rockhurst,  he  has 
dubbed  his  lordship,  in  a  raillery,  you  will  under- 
stand, of  that  countenance  which  keeps  its  gravity 
through  the  maddest  freak.  And  mad  he  can  be, 
sir;  hence  that  nickname  of  Rakehell,  which  no 
doubt  has  astonished  your  French  elegancy.  —  Nay, 
but  in  truth  there  is  an  eye  that  wanders,  as  you  say, 
prodigious  languorously  upon  my  lord  Constable  ! " 
Mr.  Petherick  went  on,  narrowing  his  own  watchful 
gaze :   "  I  congratulate  you,  Vidame,  upon  your  fair 


The  Enigma  of  the  Locket  95 

sister  .  .  .  yet,  I  trust  she  is  as  wise  as  she  is  fair. 
.  .  .  Aye,  you  say  true,  and  your  young  wits  are 
quicker  than  mine;  the  Lord  Constable — my  lord 
Rockhurst  is  constable,  I  should  inform  you, 
of  his  Majesty's  Tower  and  captain  of  the  Yeomen 
of  the  Guard  —  and  in  sooth  the  one  gentleman 
about  the  presence  who  would  dare,  and  for  the  mere 
deviltry  of  it,  to  place  himself  in  rivalry  with  the 
King  ...  to  nip  the  quarry,  as  it  were,  from  under 
Old  Rowley's  nose !" 

"Old  Rowley?"  questioned  Enguerrand,  his 
dark  eyes  flashing  wide.  He  had  a  side  smile,  as  he 
spoke,  for  his  sister  and  her  astuteness.  He  could 
trust  Jeanne  to  be  wise. 

Petherick  coughed  behind  a  lean  hand. 

"  Oh,  a  name,  sir.  A  name,  by  which  his  Maj- 
esty's intimates  dare,  now  and  then,  to  call  him  — 
ahem!  when  not  in  the  presence — a  foolish  habit. 
I  know  not  how  the  absurdity  slipped  from  my 
tongue." 

"Nay,  neither  do  I,"  said  the  little  cool  Vidame. 

His  glance  wandered  back  with  sharper  set  curios- 
ity to  the  royal  circle.  Charles  had  a  languid  hand 
amid  the  curls  of  the  proud,  fair  beauty,  who  sat, 
erect  and  triumphant,  beside  him ;  the  young 
courtier's  thoughts  ran  back  to  his  own  gorgeous 


96  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

monarch,  set  up  as  upon  an  altar,  never  to  be  ap- 
proached save  with  bent  spine,  with  double-dis- 
tilled compliments,  spoken  of  with  awe,  in  whispers, 
as  befitted  his  august  essence.  Le  Roy  Soleil  .  .  . 
Old  Rowley  ! 

Jeanne  de  Mantes  had  a  pretty,  round  face  with 
a  pointed  chin,  wide-set,  very  innocent  dark  eyes, 
piquantly  contradicted  by  the  dainty,  wicked  mouth, 
by  every  vivacious  art  and  grace  that  proclaimed 
one  deeply  learned  already  in  the  art  of  pleasing. 
Charles,  in  truth,  looked  more  often  to-night  at  his 
sister's  pretty  dame  d'honneur  than  at  the  blond, 
chill  beauty  who  sat  at  his  right  hand ;  and  pres- 
ently, as  he  looked,  the  King's  sardonic  face  relaxed 
into  a  smile.  He  leaned  forward  and  addressed 
the  lady  in  French:  — 

"I  hear  mounts  and  marvels,  madam,  of  your 
skill  upon  the  guitar.  Will  you  not  pleasure  us  with 
some  sweet  air  of  your  fingers?" 

Instantly  every  glance  fell  upon  the  French- 
woman ;  and  she,  with  a  start,  brought  her  eyes  from 
their  absent  fixing  of  the  Lord  Constable  to  the  visage 
of  the  King.     She  fluttered.     She  smiled:  — 

"Your  Majesty  commands?  'Tis  scarce  worthy 
of  such  ears." 


The  Enigma  of  the  Locket  97 

Curiously  enough  the  guitar  had  been  brought  to- 
night, by  the  wish  of  Madame  herself,  who  deemed 
that  his  Majesty  might  be  pleased  to  hear  it.  She 
stretched  out  a  white  hand,  half  turning  the  head 
with  its  wreath  of  soft  black  curls  toward  the  young 
man  behind  her :  — 

"My  brother!  .  .  .     Vidame!" 

It  was  a  languid,  sweet  call,  like  the  pipe  of  a 
waking  bird,  which  augured  well  for  the  louder 
warble.  The  Vidame  was  alert ;  in  a  twinkling 
he  was  at  his  sister's  side,  presenting  the  guitar 
with  the  arrogant  grace  peculiar  to  him. 

But  Charles,  full  of  that  curious  interest  in  small 
things  which  seems  so  marked  a  characteristic  of 
sovereigns  —  their  lives  being  by  fate  ordained  in 
view  of  wide  issues  —  signified  by  a  gesture  his 
desire  to  examine  the  new-fashioned  instrument, 
and  the  Vidame  approached  the  presence. 

The  silent,  grave  personage  whose  seat  behind  the 
King,  apart  from  the  table,  threw  him  into  shadow, 
looked  at  the  young  man  at  first  with  indifference ; 
then,  of  a  sudden,  piercingly. 

With  one  arm  thrown  familiarly  on  the  back  of  the 
royal  chair,  he  had  shown  himself  mighty  indifferent 
either  to  the  challenging  glances  lavished  upon  him, 
or  to  the  pleasantries  that  circled  round  the  table, 

H 


98  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

the  most  audacious  winged  with  a  subtle  flattery 
for  the  royal  attention.  For  the  monarch  himself, 
who  dropped  him  ever  and  anon  a  confidential 
word,  Lord  Rockhurst  had  but  a  perfunctory,  if 
quite  courteous  attention.  A  deep  mood  of  abstrac- 
tion had  held  him.  But,  now,  his  interest  was 
vivid,  unmistakable.  He  stared  at  the  Vidamc; 
and,  as  he  stared,  surprise  seemed  to  pass  into  dis- 
taste, almost  into  pain. 

The  lad  paused  in  his  advance,  as  if  held  by  that 
intent  gaze.  Then  he  tossed  his  black  locks;  a 
sudden  fire  of  resentment  leaped  and  died  in  his 
eyes,  and  with  crimson  cheeks  he  came  swaggering 
round  the  table,  and  dropped  on  one  knee  before 
the  King.  Charles  glanced  curiously  from  him  to 
his  Lord  Constable;  Rockhurst's  gaze  was  still 
resting  inscrutably  upon  the  lad. 

"Odd's  fish,  my  lord  Rockhurst !"  cried  the  King. 
"You  look  at  the  pretty  boy  as  if  you  saw  a  spectre  !" 

"Even  so,  your  Majesty." 

The  sonority  of  the  voice,  the  strange  words,  fell 
impressively  in  that  light  atmosphere.  Again  En- 
guerrand's  black  pupils  shot  fury.  Rockhurst, 
with  the  same  absorbed  air,  laid  his  fingers  on  a 
slender  chain  that  hung  round  his  neck,  and  drew 
from  his  breast  a  gold  locket. 


The  Enigma  oj  the  Locket  99 

Opening  and  holding  it  in  his  hand  so  that  none 
could  view  it  but  himself,  he  appeared  to  be  con- 
trasting some  portrait  concealed  in  it  with  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  still  kneeling  boy. 

"Ha!"  cried  the  King,  "take  heed,  ladies;  for, 
as  we  live,  the  mystery  of  my  lord  Rockhurst's 
locket  is  at  length  to  be  solved.  A  spectre,  did  you 
say,  my  lord?" 

The  Lord  Constable  closed  the  locket  with  a  snap, 
slipped  it  back  among  the  laces  on  his  breast,  and 
turned  easily  upon  the  King;  his  frown  had  van- 
ished. 

"Nay,  no  spectre,  sire;  the  merest  passing  fan- 
tasy!" 

Charles  was  shaken  with  laughter,  a  noiseless 
laugh  which  scarcely  wrote  itself  upon  his  melan- 
choly features. 

"Methought,  from  your  lenten  face,"  said  he, 
"that  you  were  struck  by  some  memory  of  past 
misdeeds." 

"Your  Majesty  mistakes.  No  memory;  but  a 
warning !" 

The  King  looked  puzzled ;  then,  with  his  usual 
distaste  for  prolonged  discussion,  made  a  gesture  as 
if  he  would  put  the  matter  on  one  side. 

"But  that  locket ? "     And  with  the  words  Madame 


ioo  "  My  Merry  Rockhnrst  " 

de  Mantes  flung  out  a  small  olive  finger.  Since 
English  etiquette,  it  seemed,  permitted  every  one  to 
speak,  then  she  would  speak.  The  matter  had  be- 
come all  at  once  of  palpitating  interest  to  her.  The 
portrait  in  the  locket  —  it  was  evidently  a  portrait  ■ — ■ 
he  had  smiled  at  it.  And  such  a  smile !  She  took 
a  vow  that  one  day  this  man  should  be  made  to 
smile  thus  on  her. 

"True,  true,"  said  Charles.  "Let  us  see  into  the 
secret  at  last,  my  merry  Rockhurst." 

The  Lord  Constable  flung  himself  back  into  his 
chair. 

"Nay,  sire,"  said  he,  and  the  deference  of  the 
words  became  mockery  in  view  of  the  attitude  of 
the  speaker.  "Your  Majesty  has  every  jurisdiction 
over  me  —  my  goods,  my  services,  my  life,  are 
irrevocably  yours  to  dispose  of;  but  my  thoughts 
are  mine  own.  And  this  locket  belongs  to  my  most 
secret  thoughts." 

Curiosity  flickered  once  more  for  a  moment  in  the 
royal  eye.  But  through  drooping  lids  the  Lord 
Constable's  gaze  was  steel-like,  and  the  King 
shrugged  his  shoulders  with  the  foreign  gesture  that 
cleaved  to  him  through  life. 

"God's  mercy,  my  lieges,  that  ye  keep  your 
thoughts  to  yourselves,  at  least!"  he  cried,  with  an 


The  Enigma  of  the  Locket  101 

assumed  rueful  air;  "for,  between  your  lost  goods 
and  your  past  services,  our  exchequer  has  enough  to 
meet."  He  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  guitar 
as  he  spoke,  and  twanged  ignorantly  at  the  strings. 

Enguerrand  rose  with  a  grin.  Charles's  ingrati- 
tude toward  his  ruined  loyalists  was  no  secret  in 
France,  and  the  cold  gibe  was  after  his  heart. 

"Then  we  shall  not  see  the  locket?"  cried  the 
Frenchwoman,  disappointment  ringing  through  her 
fluted  tones. 

"How  the  bird  twitters!"  cried  Charles,  good- 
naturedly.  "Nay,  my  dear,  curiosity  was  ever 
fatal  to  your  sex.  Let  us  remain  in  paradise  for 
an  hour  or  so.     Sing!" 

Jeanne  de  Mantes  had  a  voice  that  matched  her 
looks :  small,  insinuating,  sweet ;  creeping  into 
favour,  rather  than  storming  it ;  docile  to  a  thousand 
modulations  and  graces.  Now  it  was  the  very 
gaiety  of  music;  anon  just  a  hint  of  pathos;  and 
every  word  distinct  as  a  dropping  gem.  And  this 
accompanied  with  here  a  dreamlike  fixity  of  gaze, 
there  an  arch  roll  of  the  eyes ;  here  again  a  punctuat- 
ing dimple,  a  flash  in  the  peachy,  dark  face  of  the 
whitest  teeth  in  all  the  world ;  there  a  drooping  of 
the  lip  that  positively  demanded  the  consolation  of  a 
kiss. 


102  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Charles  had  not  been  so  stirred  to  enthusiasm 
for  a  considerable  time.  He  called  for  a  second 
ditty,  and  yet  another.  This  last  had  an  audacious 
lilt,  with  a  refrain  so  infectious  that  the  royal  lis- 
tener began  to  hum  it  midway  and  sadly  out  of  tune. 
Toward  the  last  verse,  however,  under  strokes  wax- 
ing ever  smarter,  a  string  broke  with  a  plaintive  sob. 

"Ah,  (Liable V  involuntarily  exclaimed  the  singer; 
and  his  Majesty  laughed  delightedly.  Then  his 
face  changed  again  as  he  noted  the  compressed 
lips  of  Lady  Castlemaine  and  the  glacial  anger  of 
Miss  Stewart.  He  rose  and  broke  up  the  circle. 
His  arm  on  Rockhurst's  shoulder,  he  was  about  to 
retire,  when  he  paused  and  hummed  a  few  notes 
of  the  last  song  once  more. 

"  A  linnet,"  he  said,  "  a  positive  linnet !  Odd's  fish  ! 
but  we'd  have  her  pipe  to  us  when  we  might  give 
her  our  whole  attention." 

He  spoke  low,  and  flung  back  a  look,  that  held  a 
certain  apprehension,  toward  Miss  Stewart.  This 
latter  stood  very  erect,  and  bore  a  studied  air  of 
indifference. 

"  If  your  lordship  will  look  to  it  —  "  he  went  on, 
then  broke  off  petulantly  under  the  glance  that  Rock- 
hurst turned  upon  him.  "  Good  lack,  man  !  I  forget 
how  much  of  the  Puritan  there  is  in  thee  at  times." 


The  Enigma  of  the  Locket  103 

"Your  Majesty,"  said  Rockhurst,  in  his  most 
stately  manner,  "will  find  with  ease  an  apter  mes- 
senger." 

"Aye,"  said  the  King,  cynically.  His  narrow, 
dark  eye  roamed  a  moment  about  the  room,  then 
rested  reflectively  upon  the  fair  mask  of  Enguer- 
rand's  face.  The  boy  turned  quickly.  Charles 
raised  a  beckoning  hand. 

"Vidame,"  said  the  King,  "a  word  in  the  hollow 
of  your  ear !" 

The  two  drew  apart,  while  Rockhurst  moved  away 
to  the  door  to  await  the  King's  pleasure.  Charles 
rejoined  him,  laughing. 

"Faith,  if  I  had  such  subjects  as  my  cousin  Louis, 
I  should  be  well  served.  Yes,  'tis  your  French 
finger  you  want  for  true  lightness  of  touch.  My 
honest  Britons  are  all  thumbs.  The  pretty  singer's 
brother  .  .  .  Her  own  brother,  no  less !  'Tis  a 
positive  little  Satan !" 

"Aye,"  assented  Rockhurst,  briefly. 

The  two  went  down  the  corridor  in  silence ;  then 
Rockhurst  spoke  with  some  abruptness. 

"Your  Majesty,"  said  he,  "has  before  this,  I 
think,  found  it  add  to  his  interest  in  .  .  .  bird- 
catching  that  he  should  not  be  the  only  fowler  in 
the  field." 


104  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"How  now?"  said  Charles,  halting.  The  group 
of  attendant  pages  halted  likewise  at  the  end  of  the 
gallery. 

"I  have  thought,"  said  Rockhurst,  steadily, 
"I,  also,  that  I  should  like  that  linnet  to  sing  to 
me." 

Charles  frowned ;  but  his  favourite  pursued 
unmoved :  — 

"As  I  have  only  my  beaux  yeux,  as  we  used  to  say 
abroad,  to  stake  against  your  Majesty's  overwhelm- 
ing attractions,  I  should  be  flattered  indeed,  however, 
were  you  to  have  me  banned  as  a  marauder." 

Touched  upon  the  string  of  his  humour,  Charles 
was  ever  easily  appeased.  The  very  impudence  of 
his  grave  constable's  proposal  tickled  him.  It  was 
not  the  first  time  that  they  had  found  themselves 
opposed  in  rivalry,  though  scarcely  ever  before  so 
avowedly.  On  the  last  occasion  (the  King  remem- 
bered this  pleasantly)  Rockhurst,  for  all  his  beaux 
yeux,  had  been  notoriously  displaced ;  and  this, 
doubtless,  was  a  little  stroke  of  revenge.  That 
was  Rockhurst's  way. 

"Beware  of  boasting,  my  lord  Constable!"  he 
exclaimed  banteringly. 

They  were  on  the  threshold  of  the  apartment. 
Rockhurst  made  a  deep  conge. 


The  Enigma  of  the  Locket  105 

"I  never  boast,  as  your  Majesty  knows.  But 
your  Majesty  was  wont  to  love  a  fair  wager." 

Charles's  smile  widened.  He  nodded  assent,  and 
Rockhurst  pursued  after  a  moment's  reflection :  — 

"Will  your  Majesty  stake  the  payment  of  all  the 
arrears  due  to  my  yeomen's  company  that  the  lin- 
net's first  song  will  not  be  for  me  ?  I  would  wager  in 
return  their  immediate  settlement,  out  of  my  own 
estate,  unless  your  Majesty  would  impose  on  me 
any  other  stake." 

"Admirable  !"said  the  King.  "Yet  we  would  have 
a  more  immediate,  a  more  personal,  token  of  victory 
—  if  we  succeed  against  your  beaux  ycux"  he  put 
in  with  a  little  mockery,  "and  that  is,  in  addition 
to  the  paltry  coin,  a  view  of  the  contents  of  that 
locket,  my  merry  Rockhurst." 

Rockhurst  hesitated,  then  bowed.  "So  be  it, 
sire,"  said  he. 

And  hereupon  Charles  retired,  laughing,  in  cyni- 
cal anticipation  of  a  good  stroke  of  business.  That 
ever-present  question  of  arrears  of  pay  was  a  per- 
sistent annoyance  to  the  royal  conscience. 


II 

WHITEHALL    STAIRS 

"Little  Satan"  —  bestowed  from  lips  royal  in 
terms  of  favour,  the  nickname  cleaved  congenially 
to  Enguerrand  —  entered  into  the  role  of  King's 
Mercury  with  all  the  verve  expected  of  him.  But 
he  was  considerably  surprised  at  the  manner  in 
which  his  embassy  was  received.  To  place  the 
most  unworthy  motives  invariably  foremost  was,  hp 
flattered  himself,  to  display  a  thorough  knowledge 
of  woman.  He  had  yet  to  learn  the  thousand 
sensibilities  that  distinguish  even  the  frail  of  that 
elusive  sex  from  the  unscrupulous  gallant. 

As  he  paused  on  his  announcement,  fully  expecting 
to  descry  in  the  new  recipient  of  the  royal  favour 
at  least  as  much  gratification  as  he  himself  experi- 
enced in  being  singled  out  as  confidential  messenger, 
he  was  met  by  a  sudden  pouncing  movement,  ex- 
pressive only  of  wrath,  by  a  dark  look,  actually  by  a 
flush. 

Had  Jeanne  de  Mantes  ever  blushed?     It  might 

1 06 


The  Enigma  o)  the  Locket  107 

be  a  matter  of  doubt.     But  she  could  colour  high 
with  displeasure ;  and  very  becoming  it  was. 

"What,  sir?"  she  cried.  "I  cannot  have  under- 
stood aright.  Is  this  the  Vidame  de  Joncelles,  the 
French  gentilhomme,  the  servant  of  Madame 
Henriette  de  France  —  is  this  my  compatriot,  my 
own  brother,  who  comes  to  make  me  such  a  propo- 
sition? —  It  is  really  not  to  credit  one's  ears  !  .  .  ." 

Brother  and  sister  faced  each  other,  strangely 
alike  now  in  their  anger:  nostrils  quivering  over 
fierce,  quick  breaths,  black  eyes  flashing  into  black 
eyes. 

It  was  the  Vidame  who  could  scarce  credit  his 
ears.  Here  was  he,  the  messenger  of  the  King,  come 
to  open  before  one  whose  devouring  ambition,  he 
believed,  if  anything,  exceeded  his  own,  a  per- 
spective of  boundless  possibilities  —  and  he  was  thus 
received  !  He  sat  before  her  in  the  small  parlour 
allotted  to  her  in  Whitehall,  —  an  exiguous  rounded 
corner  room  overlooking  the  river,  —  his  mouth 
opened  in  astonishment,  deserted  for  the  nonce  by 
all  his  pert  airs  of  assurance. 

"Nay,  Jeanne,"  he  said  at  length,  "keep  this 
pretty  scene  for  his  Majesty,  if  you  will ;  or  rather," 
he  amended,  restored  by  the  sound  of  his  own  glib 
speech,  "take  my  advice,  and  hold  your  fits  of  virtue 


io8  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

as  cured  and  over,  once  for  all,  for  they  say  that  King 
Charles  becomes  very  easily  ennuye.  For,  with  me, 
whom  do  you  expect  to  take  in?" 

Whereupon,  at  a  tangent,  Madame  de  Mantes 
flew  into  a  new  rage. 

"And  it  is  this  little  man  who  is  my  brother!" 
she  cried,  clasping  her  hands  and  surveying  En- 
guerrand  from  head  to  foot,  with  flashing  fury; 
"  this  is  the  child  who  knelt  beside  me  at  our  mother's 
knee!" 

She  thrust  out  a  lip  of  utter  contempt :  "  Take  thee 
in  ?  Thou  —  thou  little  withered  fruit  ...  a  stone 
inside,  hard  skin  without;    what  art  thou  to  me?" 

"What  am  I  to  thee — Jeanne?  To-day,"  he 
cried,  "the  stepping-stone  to  thy  fortune,  if  thou  wilt 
only  see  it !     Now  listen  to  me." 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  of  a  sudden  his  anger 
cooled  before  the  expression  of  her  face.  What  if 
she  was  in  earnest,  what  of  his  fortunes  then?  It 
was  no  time  to  quarrel.  He  caught  his  sister  round 
the  waist  and  advanced  his  lips  toward  the  smooth 
check.     But  a  masterly  slap  met  the  endearment. 

"I'll  be  no  stepping-stone  to  you,  nor  creature  of 
the  English  King,"  Jeanne  announced,  half  laughing, 
half  crying.  "There's  better  in  London,  Master 
Enguerrand." 


The  Enigma  o]  the  Locket  109 

He  looked  at  her  with  wicked  eyes,  his  face  whiter 
than  usual  against  the  three  scarlet  stripes. 

"You've  had  a  visit  this  morning  before  me!" 
he  cried  suddenly;  then,  with  a  diabolic  flash  of 
intuition,  he  recalled  the  long,  soft  looks  she  had  cast 
upon  Lord  Rockhurst. 

"A  visit?"  said  the  Frenchwoman,  swinging  her- 
self upon  her  heel.  "Why,  yes,  that  might  well  be." 
She  had  a  private  smile,  as  to  the  memory  of  some- 
thing singularly  pleasant. 

"I  warrant  me  that  it  is  your  purpose  to  visit 
before  long  that  interesting  pile  they  call  the  Tower 
of  London.  Have  a  care,  ma  sceur"  and  his 
trembling  lips  could  scarce  articulate  the  sneer, — 
had  he  not  hated  that  man  at  very  first  sight, — "it 
is  there,  they  say,  that  heads  are  lost  in  England  !" 

"  Out  of  my  room  !"  she  ordered. 

He  laughed  in  what  was  almost  a  convulsion  of 
rage.  To  what  post,  to  what  favours,  might  he  not 
have  aspired,  with  such  a  beginning !  Meanwhile 
it  is  always  the  messenger  of  unwelcome  news  who 
bears  the  blame.  Malediction  I  His  hand  on  the 
door-latch,  he  sent  his  last  shaft  with  deadly  purport 
to  wound :  — 

"O  Jeanne,  and  I  had  never  thought  thee  the 
woman  to  submit  to  a  rival !     Call  to  mind,   ma 


no  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

toute  belle,  milord's  smile  as  he  gazed  at  the  face 
in  the  locket." 

Madame  de  Mantes  heard  the  furious  laughter 
echo  down  the  passage  as  the  door  closed.  She 
stood  in  the  middle  of  her  little  room  nibbling  at  her 
finger.  'Twas  true !  He  had  smiled  at  the  locket, 
and  with  what  tenderness !  Ah,  that  was  very 
different  from  the  mocking  twist  of  the  lips  with 
which  he  had  wittily  courted  her  only  an  hour  ago. 
How  !  a  king  was  to  be  sacrificed  to  him,  and  the 
man  dared  to  haggle  over  the  full  surrender  of  his 
heart !     'Twould  be  monstrous  ! 

"Ah,  there's  my  Little  Satan,"  said  the  King. 
But  his  long,  gloomy  face  relaxed  into  no  mirth : 
he  had  had  a  tedious  morning,  and  of  all  things 
Charles  could  least  endure  tedium.  The  lady 
who  had  been  first  in  favour  so  long  that  her  chain 
had  become  well-nigh  as  heavy  as  that  of  matrimony 
itself,  had  made  him  such  a  scene  as  his  own  good 
and  faithful  queen  would  never  have  permitted  her- 
self to  make.  And  another  lady,  whom  for  some 
time  the  volatile  royal  fancy  had  pursued  in  vain, 
had  shown  herself  more  hopelessly  obdurate  than 
usual.  Between  chiding  Palmer  and  elusive  Stewart, 
Charles  was  as  near  ill-humour  as  his  easy  temper 


The  Enigma  oj  the  Locket  in 

would  allow  —  and  he  was  therefore,  character- 
istically, ready  for  any  diversion  to  this  unwonted 
hue  of  his  sky.  The  sight  of  the  little  Vidame's 
pallid,  handsome  face  at  the  end  of  the  audience 
room  put  him  in  mind  at  once  of  the  whim  he  had 
indulged  in  overnight  for  the  lady  of  the  guitar; 
a  linnet  that  trilled,  a  little  quail  for  roundness  and 
compactness. 

For  an  entremet,  according  to  the  new-fangled 
French  jargon  of  banqueting,  Madame  de  Mantes 
was  certainly  not  a  dish  to  be  despised;  and,  to 
add  spice  to  it,  there  was  that  presumptuous  fellow's 
wager.  Actually  a  wager !  —  Those  arrears  of 
pay  had  been  forced  upon  the  royal  memory  al- 
together too  often  of  late.  So,  with  a  gesture, 
Charles  waved  his  usual  circle  aside ;  and  those  that 
formed  it  saw,  with  astonishment  and  the  virulent 
spite  of  the  courtier,  the  King  withdraw  with  the 
unknown  French  boy  into  the  embrasure  of  the 
windows   overlooking   the   Thames. 

Some  bethought  themselves  that  his  Majesty 
had  noticed  the  creature  already  on  the  previous 
night;   and  whispers  began  to  circulate. 

One  inventive  personage  declared  he  knew  (upon 
positive  authority)  that  the  little  Vidame  had  come 
on  an  important  secret  mission  of  the  French  King 


H2  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

ancnt  the  necessity  of  Romanising  the  English 
Church  without  delay.  "Vidame,  mark  you,  is  an 
old  French  ecclesiastical  title,"  he  was  good  enough 
to  explain.  "He  holds  his  lands  in  feu  from  some 
mighty  Archbishopric  —  formerly  a  Vidame  was 
a  kind  of  ecclesiastical  marshal  —  does  not  this 
furnish  food  for  reflection,  my  lords?  But — " 
"Pooh,"  cried  an  airy  gallant  (who  had  a  French 
tilt  to  his  moustache),  "our  good  Dorset  has  ever 
Rome  in  his  head.  Why,  man,  a  Vidame  and  his 
Bishop,  it  is  well  known,  always  hate  each  other 
cordially  as  ever  fox  and  wolf ;  'tis  always  between 
them,  who  shall  have  the  fattest  share  of  church 
booty !  Nay,  then,  are  you  so  simple  ?  Have  you 
looked  at  that  smooth  cheek,  those  rich  curls? 
Why,  'tis  the  most  piquant  matter  —  some  Fair 
Audacity  in  disguise !  No  more  Vidame  than  your 
lordship's  self;  but,  believe  me,  some  cosy  little 
chanoinesse,  sheltering  her  gentle  lapses  under  the 
comfortable  wing  of  Mother  Church."  —  "Hearken 
to  Follett  and  his  follies!"  interposed  a  third,  a 
frank-faced  youth,  the  sap  of  whose  English  generous 
common-sense  had  not  yet  been  withered  by  courtly 
poisons.  "Nay,  neither  envoy  nor  canoness,  my 
lords,  but  as  tough  a  youth  as  ever  I  came  across. 
I  tried  a  fall  with  him,  in  the  Cockpit,  —  having 


The  Enigma  oj  the  Locket  113 

heard  him  brag  of  a  trick  of  Breton  wrestling,  — 
and  by  my  soul,  the  lad  is  steel  and  bow-string; 
he  had  me  on  my  back  in  a  twinkling  and  jeered  at 
me  till,  for  a  moment,  I  saw  him  in  red  !  But  I 
like  the  lad ;  he  has  mettle,  for  all  his  whey  face. 
Heard  you  not  what  his  Majesty  calls  him :  his 
Little  Satan !  —  Old  Rowley  hath  some  bit  of  devil's 
work  for  him  this  morning.  And  that's  the  nut  of 
the  mystery." 

"Well,  Vidame,"  said  the  King,  as  soon  as  they 
were  out  of  earshot,  "let  us  now  arrange  the  hour 
when  we  are  again  to  hear  your  melodious  sister 
warble,  as  though  she  were  a  bird  and  found  our 
dull  skies  as  bright  as  those  of  France." 

Enguerrand's  lips  trembled.  His  pale  cheek 
grew  paler  still. 

But  he  had  by  no  means  been  prepared  to  reveal 
his  diplomatic  failure.  His  plan  was  to  temporise, 
in  the  hope  of  eventual  success.  But  his  sensitive 
acuteness  nosed  a  trail  of  bitter  temper  under  all 
Charles's  urbanity ;  and,  flustered,  he  hesitated  a 
second.  The  King  drew  his  great  eyebrows  to- 
gether. 

"Madame  requires  pressing,  it  seems.  She  is 
perhaps  hoarse  to-day." 

Enguerrand  foresaw  how,  in  another  moment,  by 


ii4  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

a  gesture  of  that  languid  white  hand,  the  insignifi- 
cant personality  of  Jeanne — and  with  it  his  own 
equally  futile  existence  —  would  be  swept  from 
Charles's  horizon.  Biting  his  lips,  he  cast  about, 
but  vainly,  in  his  own  brain,  for  a  word  which  would 
keep  the  King's  fickle  humour  at  least  a  little  longer 
on  the  same  bent. 

Could  she  but  be  brought  to  take  her  golden  chance, 
Jeanne  would  hold  her  own  against  any  adversary 
but  relentless  Time  —  Enguerrand  knew  his  sister 
well  enough  to  feel  certain  of  that.  So  promising 
an  opportunity,  and  to  see  it  wrecked  by  a  mood  of 
monstrous  folly  ! 

His  eye  wandered  desperately  from  the  King's 
face,  whereon  was  writ  coming  dismissal,  to  the 
dull  prospect  which  lay  beyond  the  window:  a 
leaden  river  under  a  leaden  sky  —  merely  to  see  the 
huddled,  cloaked  wayfarers  in  the  boats  gliding  past 
made  one  shiver. 

Suddenly  the  boy's  eyes  narrowed ;  he  drew  close 
to  the  window,  peered  eagerly  down ;  nay,  he  was 
not  mistaken  !  Yonder,  indeed,  went  Jeanne  .  .  . 
Jeanne  and  her  woman,  and  at  the  water  stairs  a 
boat  lay  in  wait  for  them.  In  a  flash  he  understood  ; 
he  had  been  right  in  his  surmise !  Moved  by  an 
inspiration  born  of  the  very  genius  for  intrigue,  he 


The  Enigma  o)  the  Locket  115 

cried  eagerly,  but  under  his  breath,  arresting  the 
King's  attention  even  as  he  was  moving  wearily 
away :  — 

"Nay,  your  Majesty,  my  sister  is  not  hoarse,  at 
least  to  my  knowledge  —  I  found  her  not  in  her 
apartment,  and  now  I  perceive  the  reason.  The  lady 
is  not  hoarse  ...  yet  seems  like  to  become  so 
presently !  How  will  her  sweet  notes  sound,  I 
wonder,  after  her  water  journey,  this  bitter  day  I" 

"Odd's  fish!"  said  the  King.  "What  prate  is 
this,  sir?" 

Yet,  curiosity  drew  him  to  approach  the  window 
in  his  turn.  Through  the  Whitehall  water  gate, 
down  the  King's  own  stairs,  a  figure,  wrapped  in  a 
rose  and  grey  mantle  daintily  held  up  to  show  little 
close  tripping  feet,  a  small  dame  was  picking  her 
way  down  the  miry  steps.  Behind  her  a  waiting 
woman  in  russet  carried  what  appeared  to  be  a  lute 
case.  Charles  turned  a  look,  half  quizzical,  half 
interrogative,  upon  the  Vidame. 

"And  is  indeed  that  pink-and-grey  bird  our  fair 
singer  of  last  evening?" 

"Even  so,  sire,"  said  Enguerrand,  bowing  low  to 
conceal  the  agitation  of  his  countenance. 

"Satan,  my  little  friend,"  said  the  King,  more 
genially,  "can  you  inform  me  whither  she  may  be 


n6  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

winging  her  flight,  from  the  very  stairs  sacred  to  our 
own  passage?  Not  that  such  ordinance  can  be 
enforced  upon  birds." 

"I  notice,  your  Majesty,"  said  Enguerrand,  now 
turning  candid  eyes  full  upon  the  King,  "the  skiff 
is  heading  down  river.  I  believe  your  Majesty's 
Tower  lies  somewhere  in  that  direction." 

"Ha!"  said  the  King.  His  deep  eye  lightened 
for  a  second  ominously.  But  as  rapidly  as  it  came, 
anger  vanished  from  his  countenance;  and  with  it 
the  last  traces  of  his  moody,  weary  humour.  "  Odd's 
fish  !"  he  ejaculated,  "I  had  forgot !  To  the  Tower, 
say  you,  Vidame?  Nay,  then,  that  minds  me  my 
Lord  Constable  and  myself  had  a  merry  wager 
touching  a  singing-bird.  Ma  foi,  he  is  early  with 
the  decoy  and  the  lime  twig  !" 

He  paused.  The  Vidame  looked  at  him  in  aston- 
ishment —  a  king  to  wager  with  a  subject !  A 
king  —  and  to  let  himself  be  crossed  in  his  pleasure 
and  to  find  in  the  circumstance  food  for  indulgent 
laughter.  And  the  man  lodged  so  conveniently 
in  his  Tower  !  Joncelle's  vindictive  young  soul  had 
been  all  afire  to  see  the  Lord  Constable  consigned 
to  one  of  his  own  cells.  If  the  Tower  of  London 
was  not  Charles's  Bastille,  for  the  disposal  of  incon- 
venient courtiers,  where  was  the  use  of  it?     If  a 


The  Enigma  oj  the  Locket  117 

king  made  no  use  of  his  prerogatives,  where  was  the 
use  of  royalty  ?  —  The  Vidame  had  yet  much  to 
learn. 

Pulling  his  full  underlip  between  finger  and  thumb, 
Charles  stared  alternately  out  of  the  window  at  the 
picture  of  grey  river,  vanishing  skiff,  and  brooding 
sky,  and  at  Enguerrand's  delicate  white  face.  Be- 
neath the  boy's  tensely  still  attitude  it  was  easy  to 
divine  quiver  of  nerves,  fierce  eagerness. 

"Why,  now,"  said  the  King  at  last,  somewhat 
maliciously,  "we  are  not  too  proud  to  be  taught  by 
our  subject.  Our  Lord  Constable  and  ourself  had, 
as  I  said,  a  wager  who  should  capture  the  linnet's 
next  song.  My  Lord  Rockhurst  is  an  old  soldier: 
he  trusts  no  one.  We  sent  a  messenger :  we  there- 
fore stand  to  lose." 

The  colour  rushed  to  the  Vidame's  face.  He 
dropped  his  lids  to  hide  the  tears  of  mortification 
that  sprang  to  his  eyes.  Had  the  fate  of  some  battle, 
the  issue  of  some  diplomatic  mission,  been  at  stake, 
he  might  almost  have  felt  less  keenly  the  reproach 
of  his  failure.  To  be  King's  Mercury,  to  set  off  so 
gaily,  on  so  high  a  flight,  and  fall  so  quickly,  so 
hopelessly  —  no  situation  could  have  been  more 
exquisitely  painful  to  the  Vidame  de  Joncelles. 
(Poor,   pious  mother !    could  she  have  read,   that 


n8  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

moment,  into  the  soul  of  her  son,  she  might  well 
have  thought  that  the  house  she  had  so  carefully 
kept  swept  and  garnished  was  indeed  invaded  by 
the  seven  devils.) 

The  King's  glance,  however,  was  not  unkind. 
"Nay,  now,"  he  continued,  in  ever  more  good- 
natured  tones,  "all  is  not  lost  yet.  This  infamous 
Rockhurst  of  ours  laid  too  tempting  a  stake  that  I 
should  let  him  carry  off  the  prize  without  an  effort. 
What  say  you,  Little  Satan  ?  Have  you  a  mind  to  see 
the  Tower?  Your  great  father  has  been  pretty 
busy  there  these  five  hundred  years.  It  should  be 
of  interest  to  his  little  son." 

He  flung  out  his  long,  careless  hand,  as  he  spoke, 
toward  the  boy,  and  Enguerrand,  dropping  on  one 
knee,  kissed  it  with  sudden  passion.  Something 
about  that  hitherto  dormant  part  of  his  young 
anatomy,  his  heart,  was  stirred.  He  had  felt  him- 
self dominated  by  that  very  carelessness  and  good 
nature  against  which  but  a  little  while  ago  he  had 
inwardly  railed ;  caught  a  hint  of  a  truer  royalty  in 
this  careless  King  than  in  all  the  pompous  tyranny 
of  his  cousin  of  France. 

Whether  the  inexplicable  Stuart  charm,  which 
Charles,  black- visaged,  saturnine,  cynical  as  he 
was,  possessed  no  less  than  his  romantically  beautiful 


The  Enigma  of  the  Locket  119 

father  and  his  handsome,  winning  brother  of  York, 
had  seized  the  more  potently  upon  Enguerrand's 
nature  that  had  hitherto  been  brazened  in  self-con- 
ceit and  self-interest  against  all  external  influence, 
the  fact  was  that  in  that  touch  of  his  lips,  the  Vidame 
de  Joncelles  devoted  himself  to  a  master. 

Charles  stepped  back  into  the  room,  called  up  his 
gentleman-in-waiting,  and  gave  instant  order  for 
his  barge.  As  he  turned  pleasantly  then  to  receive 
the  congees  of  the  dismissed  audience,  a  fine-looking 
young  man  strode  quickly  into  the  room,  made  his 
way  up,  and  bowing  so  low  that  his  profuse,  fair 
ringlets  fell  in  a  cascade  on  either  side  of  his  cheek, 
presented  a  letter  for  the  royal  hand.  Enguerrand, 
standing  close,  heard  the  messenger's  murmured 
words. 

"From  Miss  Stewart,  your  Grace." 

The  whole  circle  stepped  back  and  grew  wide 
while  the  King  read.  And  many  a  look  of  envy  was 
cast  upon  the  newcomer  as  Charles,  thrusting  the 
sheet  into  his  breast,  turned  a  complacent  counte- 
nance upon  him. 

"Vastly  well,  Sir  Paul,"  said  Charles,  with  a  little 
nod. 

The  young  man  visibly  swelled  with  triumph. 
The  Vidame's  busy  brain  worked  at  high  speed: 


120  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

Miss  Stewart  ?  That  was  the  great  fair  girl  who  gave 
the  King  such  cold  return  for  his  notice  last  night. 
.  .  .  Rumour  about  Court  had  it,  as  Enguerrand 
knew,  that  she  was  playing  a  high  game.  .  .  . 

As  a  man  might  look  upon  one  who  threatened  to 
rob  him  of  a  mistress's  smile,  so  Enguerrand  glared 
at  the  messenger  who  had  evidently  succeeded  in 
his  task.  But  his  own  hour  was  not  yet  over.  In 
high  good  humour,  Charles  beckoned  him  again  to 
his  side. 

"Come,"  said  he,  "or  we  shall  be  too  late.  Tide 
waits  not  for  kings ;  and  linnets  will  sing  only  when 
the  mood  takes  them." 

Enguerrand,  seated  in  the  royal  barge,  felt  his 
heart  swell  with  pride.  He  was  alone  in  attendance, 
save  for  the  tall  officer  of  guards,  whose  face,  impas- 
sive and  dark  as  bronze  over  the  folds  of  the  red  horse 
cloak,  looked  forth  with  the  indifference  of  the  man 
under  orders,  upon  this  last  whim  of  the  master. 
The  French  boy's  blood  was  tingling  with  excitement. 
The  raw  airs,  the  bleak  aspect  of  the  waterway, 
the  shadow  of  the  towering  masonry  from  which  they 
were  just  emerging,  dark  with  its  story  of  royal 
tragedy,  failed  to  depress  a  spirit  otherwise  suscepti- 
ble to  physical  impressions. 


The  Enigma  oj  the  Locket  121 

His  failure,  after  all,  had  become  more  profitable 
than  success.  He  was  on  sudden  terms  of  intimacy 
with  a  monarch  whom  he  was  eager  to  serve ;  and 
in  conjunction  with  the  Stuart  himself,  he  was  about 
to  inflict  at  least  discomfiture  upon  the  man  for 
whom  at  first  sight  he  had  conceived  hatred. 

He  was  still  child  enough,  moreover,  to  feel  a 
titillating  sense  of  gratification  in  watching  the  skill 
and  vigour  of  the  royal  watermen,  the  like  of  which 
was  undreamed  of  on  French  rivers ;  in  feeling  that 
it  was  partly  for  him  these  stalwart  backs  bowed  in 
rhythmic  measure,  that  the  oars  swept  the  waters, 
green  now  to  his  closer  vision ;  that  it  was,  in  a  way, 
before  his  own  passage  that  the  craft  hastily  opened 
out  to  leave  a  wide  channel,  and  that  every  head  was 
uncovered. 

Charles's  face  had  fallen  into  its  habitual  expres- 
sion in  repose,  of  somewhat  bitter  melancholy; 
and  the  journey  was  traversed  in  silence,  until, 
just  in  front  of  the  archway  of  London  Bridge,  the 
sweep  of  the  tide,  which  had  been  for  some  time  at 
the  full,  began  to  tell  decidedly  against  them.  The 
barge  came  almost  to  a  standstill. 

The  King  roused  himself  from  his  abstraction  and 
flung  a  rueful  smile  over  his  shoulder  at  Enguerrand  : 
"Said  I  not  well?     The  tide  waits  not  for  kings." 


122  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

The  watermen  caught  the  phrase,  and  as  if  stung 
in  their  pride  of  office  fell  to  at  the  oars  with  a  fury 
which  sent  the  sweat  rolling  down  each  weather- 
beaten  cheek. 

"Our  wily  friend,"  proceeded  Charles,  "chose 
his  hour  with  judgment.  The  bird  has  as  easy  a 
flight  as  the  dove  to  the  ark.  We  stand  to  be  beaten, 
after  all,  by  my  Lord  Constable." 

Beaten !  Never,  if  his  oarsmen  died  for  it. 
The  brawny  arms  shot  out  in  unison;  the  backs 
bent  and  straightened  with  the  rage  of  defiance; 
they  shot  the  bridge  in  triumph,  the  contentious 
waters  vainly  swirling  and  lapping  against  the  sides 
of  the  barge. 

As  they  emerged  into  the  gentler  stream  beyond, 
there  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  every  man  of  the 
crew,  dashing  the  salt  sweat  from  his  eyes,  turned 
involuntarily  toward  the  royal  visage.  The  slight 
smile  of  approbation  on  Charles's  lips  seemed 
ample  guerdon  for  the  feat;  indeed,  as  in  the  case 
of  most  saturnine  countenances,  its  momentary 
relaxation  had  a  rare  charm.  They  fell  upon  the 
oars  again,  and  presently  the  mighty  pile  of  the 
Tower  seemed  to  engulf  them  into  its  dark  shades. 

If  Whitehall,  stained  with  the  blood  of  a  king, 
shed  a  gloom  about  it,  even  while  holding  the  most 


The  Enigma  oj  the  Locket  123 

irresponsible  court  in  the  world,  what  sinister  shroud 
enveloped  these  walls  to  every  imaginative  mind. 
The  stones  of  the  dungeon,  tradition  said,  had  been 
first  cemented  in  lime  and  blood  ;  and  enough  blood 
had  since  been  poured  out  within  those  gates  to  stain 
the  moats  forever  crimson. 

The  water  gates  swung  back,  and  the  King's 
barge  glided  in.  Charles's  face  bore  an  air  of  pleas- 
ant anticipation,  unwonted  good  fortune.  He  was 
certain  to  be  amused,  whichever  way  events  turned ; 
certain  at  least  of  some  novel  sensation. 


Ill 

THE    LINNET'S    SONG 

Jeanne  de  Mantes  sat  sidewise  in  the  deep  window- 
seat  of  the  parlour  in  the  constable's  Tower,  her  dark 
eyes  roaming  about  her  with  a  curiosity  not  unmixed 
with  a  kind  of  awe.  The  room,  dark  with  ancient 
oak  to  its  blackened  ceiling,  with  its  huge  depth  of 
wall,  its  aspect  of  strength,  silence,  antiquity,  re- 
sembled no  apartment  that  she  had  ever  entered. 
True,  she  had  never  penetrated  into  the  Bastille, 
and  true,  she  was  here  of  her  own  free  will  and  free 
to  leave  at  her  caprice ;  yet  a  small  shiver  crept  over 
her.  There  seemed  to  her  something  ominous, 
something  fated,  about  the  place.  All  said  and  done, 
it  was  a  prison.  What  should  bring  hither  those  who 
lived  for  freedom  and  joy  ? 

She  glanced  almost  timidly  at  the  man  who  stood, 
one  elbow  propped  on  the  embrasure,  gazing  down 
at  her  with  inscrutable  yet  perhaps  mocking  eyes. 
He  matched  his  Tower,  she  thought,  in  the  something 
dark  and  melancholy  which,  though  he  might  smile 

124 


The  Enigma  of  the  Locket  125 

and  court,  yet  remained  as  undisturbed  as  the 
sombreness  of  the  room  by  the  leaping  firelight  or 
the  early  spring  flowers  on  the  table. 

Their  glances  met.  In  the  light  that  fell  upon  her 
from  grey  skies  and  grey  wall,  the  texture  of  her  face 
showed  flawless;  richly  coloured,  at  once  soft  and 
firm,  it  glowed  like  some  southern  fruit  out  of  the 
cold  setting.  Her  lips  were  parted :  forgotten,  in 
the  momentary  feeling  of  strangeness,  all  the  modish 
airs  and  graces  of  the  Louvre.  She  looked  like  a 
child,  Rockhurst  thought.  He  smiled  at  her,  sud- 
denly, kindly;  sat  down  on  the  window-seat  beside 
her  and  took  her  little  amber-tinted  hand  in  his. 

"This  is  a  rude  place  for  such  a  one  as  you,"  he 
said;  "and  you  look  about  you  like  some  creature 
caught  against  its  will.  Nay,  you  shall  but  sing  me 
a  song,  and  take  your  flight  again  forthwith,  if  you 
so  wish  it." 

All  the  woman  in  her  awoke,  petulant,  displeased. 
Chivalry  in  love,  a  man  who  could  desire  and  yet 
spare  — •  that  was  not  at  all  to  her  French  taste. 
She  drew  her  hands  quickly  from  his  and  tossed  her 
head. 

"How  so,"  she  cried  in  her  pretty  foreign  English. 
"Fortwif  after  my  song?  But  now,  at  once,  if 
you  prefer!     Your  lordship  is  quick  tired!" 


126  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

She  sprang  from  the  scat  as  she  spoke.  But  he, 
stretching  a  lazy  arm,  caught  her  by  her  yielding 
waist. 

"I  said,  if  you  wish  it,  Mignonne.  In  love  I  am 
no  highwayman,  but  a  courteous  dealer." 

She  feigned  to  struggle,  brushing  his  cheek  with 
her  curls ;  then  gave  him  all  the  candour  of  her  eyes 
and  the  glint  of  a  smile  from  her  wicked  lips ;  upon 
which,  suddenly,  he  kissed  them. 

"Ah!   highwayman,  after  all!"  she  mocked. 

He  drew  her  close  to  him,  laughing  silently. 

"Milord  Constable,"  said  she,  "if  one  of  your 
soldiers  down  there  should  chance  to  look  up,  it  is 
all  over  with  .  .  .  your  reputation." 

Again  he  laughed,  struck  by  the  audacious  hu- 
mour of  the  soft  creature  within  the  circle  of  his  arm. 

"  Madame,"  said  he,  then,  with  unexpected  gravity, 
"my  soldiers  have  long  ceased  to  look  up.  My 
reputation  is  too  well  established  to  be  worth  looking 
to." 

Piqued,  she  thrust  him  from  her  with  a  quick 
gesture.  It  is  one  thing  to  be  quickly  conquered; 
it  is  another  to  be  classed  among  the  easy  conquests. 

"You're  insolent,  milord!"  she  said,  with  out- 
thrust  lip. 

"My  pretty  one,"  he  answered  her,  "anger  be- 


The  Enigma  o]  the  Locket  127 

comes  you  vastly ;  but  as  for  myself,  I  have  a  pref- 
erence for  the  dimpled  smile." 

He  let  his  arm  drop  from  her  carelessly.  She 
stood  looking  down  at  him,  fascinated,  taunted, 
uncertain. 

"Believe  me,"  he  went  on  in  the  same  tone,  half 
condescending,  half  caressing,  "I  am  much  older 
than  you ;  I  have  had  experience  —  life  becomes 
much  pleasanter,  its  few  good  hours  vastly  easier 
of  discovery,  if  we  agree  to  take  certain  things  for 
granted.  And,  as  example  is  ever  better  than  preach- 
ing, let  us  put  my  theory  in  practice.  I,  now,  take 
it  for  granted,"  as  he  spoke  his  fine  teeth  flashed  a 
second  in  a  wider  smile,  "that  you  are  all  virtue, 
yet  that  you  harbour  for  my  unworthy  self  an  ami- 
able passion  which  excuses,  nay,  commands,  a  gentle 
lapse.  You  on  your  side  take  it  for  granted  that  I 
am  consumed  with  an  ardour  unknown  hitherto  in 
my  existence.  Come,  does  not  that  place  us  in- 
stantly on  a  delightful  footing  ?  And  this  being  so : 
why,  then,  come  back  to  my  side." 

She  palpitated  between  fury  and  the  extraordinary 
attraction  which  drew  her  to  him.  Her  breast  heaved, 
her  eye  first  lightened,  then  melted.  She  took  an 
unwilling  step,  then  paused.  Almost  a  sob  rose  in 
her  throat.     In  another  moment  she  would  have 


128  "  My  Merry  Rockhnrst  " 

Hung  herself  on  his  breast,  as  he  sat  awaiting  her 
with  that  air  of  amused  certainty  that  was  in  itself 
at  once  part  of  his  fascination  for  her  and  an  insult 
to  her  every  instinct  of  pride,  when  suddenly  she 
perceived  that  his  eye  had  become  fixed  and  distant. 
The  insolent  wretch  had  already  dropped  her  from 
his  thoughts;  she  was  not  worth  to  him  even  that 
pause  of  expectation ! 

Staring  through  the  south  window,  up  the  river  to- 
ward that  gloomy  bridge  through  the  arches  of  which 
she  had  come  to  him,  his  attention  was  absorbed,  his 
glance  had  gained  a  hawklike  keenness ;  the  lines  of 
his  face  were  set.  Whatever  he  beheld  without,  it 
was  something  that  evoked  far  keener  interest  in 
him  than  the  woman  who  had  come  to  his  call,  in 
preference  to  that  of  a  king.     This  was  too  much ! 

"Adieu,  milord,"  she  cried  in  a  high,  strained 
voice.  But,  womanlike,  she  must  see  what  it  was, 
without  there,  on  that  hideous  river,  that  he  was 
looking  at. 

The  royal  barge,  with  its  standard  and  pennants, 
its  flash  of  scarlet  and  the  long  swing  of  red-and-gold 
oars,  was  already  masked  under  the  shadow  of  the 
battlements ;  nothing  but  the  long  stretch  of  water, 
dotted  with  black  craft,  met  the  searching  of  her 
angry  eyes. 


The  Enigma  of  (he  Locket  129 

What  is  it,  she  asked  herself ;  his  fair  one,  in  some 
well-known  boat  ?  Ah  !  the  owner  perhaps  of  that 
face  in  the  locket,  which  even  his  King  was  not  to 
see?  What  in  the  name  of  all  decent  pride  was 
Jeanne  de  Mantes  doing  here  ?  Yet  even  as  she 
moved  again  to  leave  him,  with  what  dignity  she 
might,  the  incomprehensible  being  turned  to  her 
again  —  turned  with  a  smile  so  winning,  a  glance  so 
warm  and  caressing,  a  voice  so  tender,  that  the 
young  woman  lost  her  footing  on  her  momentary 
plane  of  dignity,  and  found  herself  floundering 
again  between  a  tearful  desire  for  surrender  and 
that  hot  anger  which  only  a  real  love  is  able  to 
kindle. 

"How  now!  Adieu,  say  you?  From  your  lips, 
sweet,  that  is  a  word  I  hope  never  to  hear." 

"Why  should  I  remain,  milord?"  she  said  feebly. 
"You  care  not  to  keep  me." 

"I  care  so  much  that  I  will  not  let  you  go."  He 
came  after  her  quickly  into  the  room.  "Why,  you 
foolish  child,  how  can  you  escape  from  the  Tower 
so  long  as  its  constable  means  to  hold  you?  Do 
you  not  know,  I  have  but  to  call  a  word,  and  the  draw- 
bridge is  raised,  the  portcullis  dropped  over  the 
waterway  —  that  I  have  the  right  of  imprisonment 
here,  that  there  are  secret  places  where  I  can  hide 

K 


130  "  My  Merry  Rockhursl  " 

my  wilful  prisoners?  Nay,  sweet  one,  are  we  not 
well  together  here?  —  You  shall  sing  to  me  !" 

Stirred  with  an  emotion  which,  hitherto  only 
playing  with  life,  she  had  never  known  before,  she 
murmured,  blushing  and  trembling:  — 

"Sing!     Eh,  mon  Dieu,  you  hold  to  it,  then?" 

"Why,"  he  answered  her,  "was  it  not  singing  that 
you  caught  my  heart?" 

Delicately  flattered,  she  suffered  herself  to  be  led 
to  a  cushioned  seat  by  the  deep  hearth ;  and  she 
was  already  stretching  out  her  arms  to  receive  the 
guitar,  when  something  in  his  air  struck  her  quick 
apprehension,  something  at  once  of  eagerness  for 
her  compliance,  yet  of  indifference  toward  herself. 
He  shot  restless  glances  toward  the  window,  seemed 
to  strain  his  ear  as  if  for  some  expected  signal. 
When  his  eye  swept  over  her,  it  was  with  an  impa- 
tience other  than  that  of  the  fond  lover.  She  took 
the  instrument  from  his  hand,  and  watched  him  with 
a  new,  critical  closeness  as  he  flung  himself  upon  the 
settle  opposite  to  her. 

In  a  tone  which  ill  concealed  irritability,  he  cried 
to  her:  — 

"  Begin  —  begin,  little  bird  !" 

Here  was  some  odd  mystery.  She  folded  her 
hands  across  the  polished  olive-wood. 


The  Enigma  oj  the  Locket  131 

"Heavens!"  she  exclaimed,  and  it  was  her  turn 
now  to  mock.  "What  a  passion  for  music  has  your 
lordship !" 

His  eye  shot  anger  upon  her,  beneath  contracted 
brow.  She  felt  at  last  that  she  had  power,  and  her 
smile  widened. 

"You  and  your  song,"  said  he,  "are  inseparable. 
By  your  graciousness  I  hold  you  mine  for  a  little 
while,  nor  will  I  be  defrauded  of  any  of  the  sweet- 
ness you  can  give." 

The  words  seemed  charmingly  chosen ;  but  again 
the  underlying,  unknown  purpose  was  perceptible. 
A  quick  inspiration  came  to  her :  here  was  the 
moment  to  bargain ;  and  Enguerrand,  the  little 
impertinent  one,  should  know  of  her  easy  triumph 
before  this  grey  English  day  had  turned  to  the 
murky  English  night. 

"If  I  sing,"  she  said,  "I  must  have  my  guerdon." 

Amusement  and  relief  sprang  together  into  his 
look:  — 

"Nay,  then,  pretty  one;  make  your  own  terms. 
Pearls  for  those  shell-like  ears  —  gems  for  that 
throat—" 

She  shook  her  head  till  the  ringlets  danced. 

"Speak,  then,"  he  went  on  impatiently.  "What 
jewel,  what  bauble?" 


132  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

She  bent  forward  with  a  new,  adorable  softness, 
coaxing. 

"A  mere  trifle,  indeed,  milord.  I  but  ask  for  that 
locket  of  yours  with  which  you  were  pleased  to  excite 
the  curiosity  of  Whitehall  last  night." 

"How  now!"  said  Rockhurst.  He  started,  and 
turned  the  lightning  of  his  glance,  the  thunder-cloud 
of  his  brow,  upon  her,  a  man  whom  it  was  not  good 
to  offend,  and  she  quailed  an  instant.  Then  her 
hot  blood  rose  in  jealous  passion :  — 

"  So  vastly  precious  ?  Why,  then,  generous  milord 
Constable,  suppose  I  put  a  high  price  upon  my 
song;    are  you  so  ungallant?" 

"Little  madame,"  retorted  he,  drily,  "since  you 
set  a  price  on  your  favour,  you  would  be  as  vastly 
disappointed  with  this  poor  trinket  as  Eve  with  the 
taste  of  her  apple.  Continue  to  desire  it,"  he  went 
on,  falling  back  into  his  tone  of  light  cynicism. 
"To  long  for  anything  unattainable  is  one  of  the 
spices  of  existence." 

The  firelight  leaped  on  her  angry  face.  She  sprang 
to  her  feet,  dashing  aside  the  guitar,  which  fell  on 
the  stone  floor  with  sonorous  wail. 

"If  I  could  flatter  myself  I  was  helping  to  provide 
milord's  tedium  with  such  a  spice,"  she  cried,  "my 
immediate  departure  would  have  a  double  charm  ! " 


She  felt  at  last  that  she  had  power. 


The  Enigma  oj  (he  Locket  133 

She  reached  a  trembling  hand  toward  her  cloak. 
He,  outstretched  on  the  settle,  watched  her,  without 
moving.  At  this  moment,  grave  sounds,  a  trumpet 
call,  followed  by  dull  roll  of  kettledrum,  rose  from 
without  into  the  momentary  silence  of  the  room. 
Stone  wall  and  vault  gave  back  the  echo.  There 
was  a  hurried  tramp  of  feet,  sharp  cries  of  command. 
The  Frenchwoman's  hand  was  arrested  in  mid-air. 
She  looked  in  startled  query  at  her  host,  who  was 
slowly  gathering  his  long  limbs  together  preparatory 
to  rising.  He  met  her  glance  with  one  that  struck 
her  excited  fancy  as  sinister,  and  she  gave  a  cry  like 
a  child :  — 

"Let  me  out  of  this  horrible  place  !  You  have  no 
right  to  keep  me  here  !" 

He  caught  her  wrist  with  a  grasp  gentle  yet  re- 
lentless. 

"  Your  password,  Jeanne,  shall  be  a  song  —  how- 
ever short,  but  one  stave,  a  few  notes !  Your  song 
I  must  have !" 

He  picked  up  the  guitar,  and  again  pressed  it  upon 
her.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  throat  with  a  sob, 
flung  a  piteous  glance  around  her  like  a  trapped  thing, 
and  struck  a  faltering  chord.  Then,  in  a  sudden  re- 
vulsion, her  courage  rose  again. 

"Pah!"  she  cried,  "'tis  out  of  tune!    Eh,  Men 


134  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

non !  I  will  not  sing !  I  am  French ;  you  have 
no  right  to  hold  me  here  !" 

"By  the  Lord!"  said  Rockhurst,  a  gleam  of 
genuine  admiration  leaping  to  his  eye,  "but  I  like 
your  spirit !  Be  dumb,  then,  sweetheart.  You 
shall  pay  me  by  and  by.  Nay,"  he  added,  smiling 
on  her  bewilderment,  "let  thy  mantle  lie  where  it 
is;  for,  prithee,  I  would  have  thee  assist  me  to  re- 
ceive his  Majesty." 

"His  Majesty?"  she  cried,  in  fresh  amazement. 

"Aye,"  he  laughed.  "Didst  not  hear  the  royal 
tucket  sound  without?  Charles  in  person,  who 
always  finds  the  world  but  a  dull  place,  even  under 
the  same  roof  with  an  old  friend,  if  there  be  not  the 
flutter  of  a  petticoat  to  liven  it.  But  you  have  made 
me  dally,  little  Madame  Mischief,  and  even  my 
indulgent  monarch  expects  some  pretence  of  cere- 
mony." 

His  hand  was  on  the  bolt  of  the  latchet  as  he  spoke ; 
his  last  words  were  almost  lost  in  the  echoes  of  the 
vaulted  passage. 

Charles  paused  on  the  threshold,  his  sallow  face 
seeming  darker  than  usual  in  the  grim  light.  His 
lips  smiled,  but  there  was  a  certain  displeasure  in 
his  eye  as  it  roamed  from  Jeanne's  crimsoning  coun- 


The  Enigma  0}  the  Locket  135 

tenancc  to  the  guitar  on  the  seat.  From  the  gloom 
of  the  passage  Enguerrand's  white  face  shone  out, 
composed  save  for  the  deep  reproach  of  his  glance 
when  it  met  that  of  his  sister.  Rockhurst  alone, 
bowing  the  King  into  his  apartment,  wore  a  pleasant 
air  of  unconcern. 

"We  verily  believe  our  visit  is  inopportune,"  said 
Charles,  with  sarcastic  courtesy.  "We  have  inter- 
rupted, we  fear,  some  dulcet  music,  my  Lord  Con- 
stable?" 

Rockhurst  closed  the  heavy  door  behind  his 
guests,  then  advanced  to  the  King's  side. 

"Nay,  sire,"  said  he,  with  fine  geniality,  "the  bird 
came  to  the  lure,  it  is  true,  but  no  art  of  mine  or 
persuasion  could  call  forth  a  song.  .  .  .  Your 
Majesty,  no  doubt,  will  prove  more  successful." 

"Odd's  fish!"  cried  Charles,  with  one  of  his  rare, 
hearty  laughs.  "Say  you  so,  indeed,  invincible 
Constable?  Say  you  so,  indeed,  my  merry  Rock- 
hurst ?  Beaten  ?  And  under  such  auspices  —  alone 
with  your  fair !  But  how,  then,  are  we  to  put  our 
own  skill  now  to  the  test,  before  so  many  witnesses  ? 
For  we  would  not  win  our  wager  on  the  royal  author- 
ity, but  in  all  equality,  my  good  Lord  Constable, 
even  as  in  that  merry  moment  we  entered  upon  it." 

Wager  ?     Here,  then,  was  the  word  of  the  riddle  ! 


136  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

A  wager  between  two  irresponsible  men  of  pleasure : 
who  should  first  obtain  of  a  woman  the  petty  guer- 
don of  a  song !  'Twas  for  that  she  had  been  wooed 
by  both  —  both !  And  she,  who  had  been  up- 
lifted on  a  wave  of  magnanimous  feeling,  who  had 
flattered  herself  to  be  giving  up  a  king  for  the  love  of 
a  subject !  Jeanne  de  Mantes  had  grown  white  to 
the  lips.  She  caught  at  the  table  behind  her  for 
support,  yet  never  had  her  wits  been  clearer.  To 
sing  for  neither  would  serve  them  both  well.  Aye, 
but  to  sing  for  Charles  would  best  punish  him  who 
had  deepest  offended.  She  flung  one  look  of  fury  at 
Rockhurst,  and  then  turned  to  the  King,  who  had  let 
himself  sink  upon  the  settle  in  front  of  the  fire:  — 

"May  the  poor  object  of  your  Majesty's  wager 
inquire  what  are  the  stakes  that  were  set  upon  her 
favour?"  she  asked,  with  a  deadly  sweetness,  taking 
up  the  guitar  and  beginning  to  tune  it  with  little, 
fierce  hands. 

Charles,  who  saw  himself  on  the  point  of  success, 
answered  thoughtlessly,  with  a  schoolboy  look  of 
triumph  at  the  constable :  — 

"  I  but  bargained  for  a  sight  of  the  contents  of 
that  mysterious  locket  which  was  so  contumaciously 
denied  to  my  curiosity  last  night,  and  — "  Then  he 
hesitated,  with  a  faint  flush  of  confusion. 


The  Enigma  of  the  Locket  137 

"His  Majesty,"  said  Rockhurst,  gravely,  "with  his 
usual  magnanimity,  opposed  a  large  guerdon  to  my 
trifling  stake." 

The  King,  both  spared  and  taunted  by  this 
reminder,  moved  uneasily  on  his  seat.  But  already 
the  twang  of  the  guitar  in  harmonious  cadence 
brought  his  light  humour  back  to  amusement  again. 
If  hesitation  had  still  lurked  in  Jeanne's  mind,  the 
first  mention  of  the  locket  had  swept  it  away.  Her 
voice  rose,  robbed  perhaps  of  some  of  its  delicate 
sweetness,  but  vibrating  with  unwonted  fire  and 
incisiveness.  She  chose  a  bellicose  ditty,  which 
a  Frondeuse  mother  had  sung  to  her  baby  ears. 
And  when  she  paused,  panting,  on  the  last  refrain, 
with  a  furious  sweep  across  the  strings,  Charles 
broke  into  delighted  applause.  Enguerrand,  flush- 
ing with  triumph,  caught  the  guitar  from  his  sister's 
hand,  as  with  a  hysterical  gesture  she  was  about 
to  cast  it  on  the  floor. 

"I  have  sung!"  she  cried  loudly,  with  almost  a 
viperine  movement,  rising  from  the  seat  on  which 
she  had  crouched  to  play.  "Milord  Rockhurst 
has  lost  his  wager.     Let  him  now  pay  !" 

Rockhurst  bowed  urbanely  toward  her,  drew  the 
locket  from  its  hiding-place,  and  with  a  second  pro- 
found   obeisance,  handed    it,    open,   to    the    King. 


138  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

As  he  looked,  the  mischievous  curiosity  on  Charles's 
face  changed  to  an  expression  of  profound  aston- 
ishment. 

"Odd's  fish!"  he  cried. 

He  shot  a  lightning  glance  at  Enguerrand,  then 
at  his  Lord  Constable,  and  then  at  the  picture  again. 
And  once  more  his  expressive  countenance  altered. 

"Yours?"  he  queried. 

"Yes,  your  Majesty,"  said  Rockhurst. 

Charles's  eye  remained  pensive  for  a  further  span. 
But  suddenly  it  wandered  to  the  Frenchwoman, 
and  the  mercurial  King  burst  into  laughter. 

"  Odd's  my  life,  but  look  at  your  sweetheart,  my 
lord  !  The  wench  is  on  the  very  coals  of  jealousy  — 
a  live  trout  in  the  frying-pan  were  in  comfort  com- 
pared to  her.  Nay,  we'll  have  no  torture  in  our 
presence.  Fain  would  you  look  at  your  rival, 
madame?" 

Rockhurst  made  no  effort  to  interfere,  and  with 
trembling  fingers  Jeanne  took  the  trinket  from  the 
King's  hand.  In  her  turn  she  gave  a  cry;  and 
Charles  laughed  heartily  at  the  amazement,  relief, 
and  disappointment  of  her  air. 

"Why,  'tis  naught  but  a  boy  !" 

"Naught  but  a  boy,  indeed,"  echoed  Charles, 
"yet,  we'll   go   warrant  what  our  Lord  Constable 


The  Enigma  oj  the  Locket  139 

holds  dearest  upon  earth.  A  likely  lad  !  Aye,  and 
with  a  strange  resemblance  to  Little  Satan  there." 

"God  forbid  !"  ejaculated  Rockhurst. 

And  "God  forbid!"  echoed  Enguerrand,  pertly, 
sharp  as  lightning. 

Charles,  who  had  been  in  high  good  humour, 
flung  the  lad  a  cold  look,  under  which  he  fell  back 
abashed  and  crimsoning  —  only  to  glance  up  again 
with  a  spasm  of  anger  and  hatred  at  the  Lord 
Constable,  as  soon  as  the  sovereign's  head  was 
averted. 

"We  knew  you  had  an  heir,"  said  the  King;  then, 
turning  with  dignity  to  his  host,  "but,  my  lord  Rock- 
hurst, you  have  let  us  forget  it.  How  is  it?  He 
should  be  at  our  Court." 

Bowing  deeply,  Rockhurst  answered  in  a  low 
voice :  — 

"My  son  is  brought  up  in  the  country,  sire." 

"Nay,  fie  !"  said  Charles.  " Is  not  that  even  what 
we  would  reproach  you  with?  So  fair  a  stripling 
should  never  grow  a  mere  rustic.  We'll  have  him 
about  us,"  insisted  the  King. 

Again  there  was  that  moment's  silence.  Jeanne 
looked  up  from  the  picture  at  which  she  had  been 
absently  gazing.  This  son  of  Rockhurst  interested 
her  not  at  all ;   not  had  he  been  twice  as  handsome 


140  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

as  the  fair,  spirited  face,  with  its  odd  resemblance  of 
features  and  its  odder  dissimilitude  of  expression 
to  her  own  brother.  She  felt  humiliated  to  have 
played  so  foolish  a  part  of  jealousy,  and  more  than 
ever  baffled  by  the  strange  personality  of  the  man 
she  had  elected  to  love. 

Rockhurst  took  back  the  locket,  gazed  at  it  again, 
closed  it,  and  replaced  it  on  its  chain. 

"Will  your  Majesty  forgive  me,"  said  he,  at 
length,  "nor  deem  me  ungrateful  if,  in  spite  of  your 
condescension,  I  yet  hold  that  my  son  is  best  in  the 
country?" 

"  We  would  at  least  hear  your  reason,"  said  Charles, 
with  some  weariness. 

"In  the  country,  your  Majesty,"  replied  Rock- 
hurst, then,  "my  lad  will  continue  to  revere  his 
father,  to  honour  womanhood,  to  live  wholesomely 
.  .  .  and  think  purely." 

Charles's  swarthy  cheek  became  suddenly  impur- 
pled  under  a  pulse  of  anger. 

"And  at  our  Court  can  your  paragon  practise 
none  of  these  virtues?" 

Rockhurst  turned  his  glance  deliberately  upon 
the  Vidame  de  Joncelles,  who  stood  behind  the  King, 
his  handsome  chin  uptilted,  his  eyes  insolently  ready 
to  return   the   constable's  gaze;    then  he   swept  a 


The  Enigma  of  the  Locket  141 

look  upon  Jeanne  de  Mantes.  That  look  said  more 
eloquently  than  words  the  thought  that  was  in  the 
father's  brain.     Then,  at  last,  he  spoke:  — 

"Let  me  remind  your  Majesty  of  a  phrase  you 
made  use  of  last  night  —  'And  he,  her  brother,  the 
Little  Satan!'" 

The  corners  of  Charles's  lips  twitched  humorously 
at  the  recollection ;  his  transient  anger  evaporated. 
It  was  the  misfortune  of  his  life  that  he  was  always 
most  prone  to  see  the  light  side  of  the  most  serious 
questions. 

Enguerrand,  with  his  implike  quickness,  caught 
the  relaxation  of  the  royal  profile,  and  his  own  lips 
quivered  with  mirth.  Upon  Rockhurst's  face  came 
an  expression  of  disdain  mingled  with  deep  melan- 
choly. 

"Your  Majesty  smiles,"  said  he,  "and  so  does  the 
lad  yonder.  Ah,  your  Majesty,  look  at  him !  'Tis 
a  fine  lad,  even  as  my  own.  And  you  are  right ! 
there  is  some  resemblance,  a  great  resemblance, 
between  them;  and  your  Majesty,  who  saw  me 
start  at  it  last  night,  deemed  I  had  seen  a  spectre. 
I  saw  this,  sire  —  what  a  court  makes  of 
youth." 

Charles's  foot  had  been  tapping  restlessly.  He 
moved  once  or  twice  uneasily  in  his  chair :  his  merry 


142  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Rockhurst  had  not  used  him  to  such  wearisome 
moods.     Yet  he  loved  the  man. 

"Nay,  nay,"  he  explained  at  length;  "I'd  have 
you  remember,  my  lord,  that  it  is  my  cousin  of 
France  who  is  responsible  for  our  Little  Satan  yonder. 
Nay,  Rockhurst,"  he  went  on,  in  his  easy  kindness 
and  his  sense  of  royal  prerogative,  unable  to  grasp 
the  fact  that  any  one  could  be  in  earnest  in  refusing 
the  favour  of  his  personal  interest;  "I'll  have  the 
lad  with  my  own  sons.  We'd  keep  our  eye  upon 
him,  man." 

Rockhurst's  glance  rested  on  the  King's  coun- 
tenance now  with  an  unwonted  tenderness. 

"Alas,  my  beloved   liege!  .  .  ."he   said   gently. 

Their  gaze  commingled;  then  the  amazed  dis- 
pleasure in  Charles's  eyes  gave  place  to  unwilling 
amusement,  as  Rockhurst  went  on  once  more  in 
his  usual  indifferent  tone :  — 

"The  poor  child  would  at  least,  your  Majesty 
will  admit,  find  it  hard  to  practise  at  Court  the  fourth 
commandment.  .  .  .  How  should  he  honour  his 
father?  And  yet  'tis  my  wish  that  his  days  should 
be  long  in  the  land." 

"Why,  then,"  said  the  King,  shortly,  "there  is  no 
more  to  be  said." 

He  rose  and  looked  a  second  keenly  at  Jeanne. 


The  Enigma  of  the  Locket  143 

Then,  upon  one  of  those  generous  impulses  which 
none  could  carry  more  gracefully  into  effect  than 
himself :  — 

"You  lost  your  wager  to  me,  my  lord,  with  all  the 
gallantry  I  expected  of  so  good  a  cavalier.  But, 
Odd's  fish  !  I  do  not  carry  away  altogether  a  clear 
conscience  on  the  subject.  If  you  have  lost  in  the 
letter,  it  strikes  me  you  have  won  in  the  spirit.  I 
will  take  it,  if  you  please,  that  we  have  both  won; 
I  will  indite  forthwith  an  order  on  the  exchequer 
for  those  greedy  yeomen  of  yours  who  contrive  to  be 
always  under  arrears  of  pay.  .  .  .  Though,  upon 
my  life,  Rockhurst,  you  and  your  fellows  put  me 
in  mind  of  those  callow  birds  we  used  to  watch,  in 
our  wandering  days :  it  boots  little  how  big  the  last 
mouthful  —  ever  a  squawk  for  more  !" 

Rockhurst  folded  his  lips  upon  the  obvious  retort. 
He  took  the  sheet  from  the  King's  hand  with  an  air 
of  profound  obligation  :  — 

"Your  Majesty's  veterans  will  be  deeply  gratified." 

But  already  Charles  was  weary  of  the  subject, 
weary  of  his  present  company. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  bowing  toward  Jeanne  as  he 
hastily  got  up,  "we  shall  importune  you  no  longer 
with  our  presence." 

The  little  Frenchwoman  understood  very  well  that 


144  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

in  these  words  all  royal  pretensions  to  her  favour 
were  finally  abandoned,  and,  in  her  infatuation  for 
Rockhurst,  cared  as  little  for  the  fact  as  for  the  furi- 
ous look  cast  upon  her  afresh  by  Enguerrand. 

"  Come,  Vidame,"  said  the  King.  Then  he  added, 
with  a  malicious  gesture  that  pointed  from  Jeanne 
to  Rockhurst,  "  Come,  you  are  as  much  out  of  place 
in  this  atmosphere  of  virtue  as  ourself  1" 


THE    PEACOCK  WALK 


THE    PEACOCK   WALK 


JUNE   ROSES 

The  peacock,  picking  his  stilted  way  along  the 
lower  terrace  walk,  conscious  of  his  magnificence 
with  the  sunshine  on  his  burnished  breast,  rejoiced 
at  the  sound  of  approaching  steps :  here,  at  last,  was 
some  one  to  see  and  to  admire. 

But  in  vain  did  Juno's  bird  spread  and  parade, 
advance  and  retreat,  and  display  for  the  newcomers 
the  glories  of  his  outspread  tail,  which  defied  the 
sun  with  its  fifty  iridescent  eyes.  The  elder  of 
the  two  young  men  interrupted  but  for  a  second  an 
emphatic  speech  to  cast  an  indifferent  glance  upon 
the  strutting  splendour;  while  the  younger  poked 
at  it  idly  with  the  stock  of  his  whip.  Offended, 
and  with  discordant  protest,  the  peacock  flapped  on 
to  the  stone  lion  that  heraldically  guarded  the  ter- 
race stairs  and  swept  over  their  heads  the  fall  of  his 
unappreciated  train. 


148  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Lionel  Ralcliffe,  the  emphatic  speaker,  turned  to 
survey  with  sullen  eyes  the  scene  which  spread  away 
beneath  the  balustrade  of  the  Peacock  Walk.  It 
was  the  ripest  hour  of  an  early  June  day.  The 
wood-crowned  slopes,  dropping  down  from  the 
garden,  were  bathed  in  mellow  light.  Farther 
away,  rich  pastures,  gently  swelling  into  knolls, 
melted  into  purple  haze,  until  they  were  gathered 
into  the  distant  amethystine  moors.  Almost  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  the  land  and  all  that  stood 
on  it  —  timber,  meadow,  homestead,  hamlet  —  be- 
longed to  Rockhurst,  fit  appanage  to  those  massy 
castle  walls  that  rose  clear-cut  against  the  blue  air, 
in  all  the  majesty  of  ancient  power.  And  as  he 
gazed,  Lionel  Ratcliffe's  heart  grew  sombre  even  as 
his  glance.  A  keen-faced  man,  old-looking  for  his 
thirty  years,  somewhat  below  the  middle  height, 
with  marked  features,  cold  blue  eyes  and  thin  lips 
that  betrayed  the  working  of  an  intellect  as  sharp 
as  the  steel  that  hung  by  his  side. 

His  companion  was  of  vastly  different  stamp. 
Country  bumpkin  was  written  on  the  face  of  Edward 
Hare,  on  every  seam  of  his  oversmart  suit ;  country 
wits  stared  from  his  prominent  eye,  were  heralded 
by  the  laugh  ever  ready  upon  his  mouth  —  a  mouth, 
one  dared  swear,  that  had  known  no  better  taste  in 


The  Peacock  Walk  149 

life  than  the  rim  of  an  ale  can,  the  hard  cheek  of 
some  bouncing  Dorcas. 

Waking  from  his  abstraction,  Ratcliffe  wheeled 
upon  his  cousin,  and  resumed  his  indictment:  — 

"It  is  even  as  I  tell  you,"  quoth  he.  "They  are 
both  as  apt  as  tinder :  it  needs  but  a  spark  now  to 
set  the  glow.  'Slife,  Ned,  I  little  thought  thine 
would  be  the  hand  to  strike  flint !" 

"Mine,  Cousin  Lionel?"  broke  in  the  other, 
whining.     "Nay,  nay — " 

But  the  first,  flinging  out  an  accusing  forefinger, 
bore  down  the  plaintive  interruption  :  — 

"Then  why  didst  bring  her  over  here  to-day?  — 
Come  now,  'tis  plain  enough.  Dost  favour  my  suit, 
or  young  Rockhurst's?" 

"Why,  you  know  I'll  have  none  but  you,"  bel- 
lowed Edward  Hare.  "Harry  Rockhurst  .  .  .  ?" 
he  cried.     "Phew!" 

He  snapped  his  fingers  and  blew  through  them, 
threw  himself  into  an  attitude  of  defiance  and,  so 
doing,  stumbled  into  his  new-fangled  sword  which, 
carry  it  at  whatever  angle  he  tried,  seemed  ever  in 
his  way.  Ratcliffe  steadied  his  kinsman,  then, 
still  holding  him  by  the  elbow,  drew  him  toward  the 
stone  bench,  overhung  by  climbing  roses.  Having 
jerked  his  companion  down  upon  it,  he  let  himself 


150  "My  Merry  Rockkurst" 

subside  beside  him,  crossed  his  legs  and  pro- 
ceeded, contemptuously,  good-humoured  yet  in- 
cisive :  — 

"If  I  wed  Mistress  Harcourt,  your  sister,  is't 
not  a  bargain?  Shalt  not  continue  to  have  bed  and 
board  and  bottle  beneath  her  roof  ?  Aye,  and  many 
more  of  old  Harcourt's  round  pieces  to  chirp  in  thy 
pockets  at  cockfight  and  hammer  fair?  And  when 
we  go  to  Whitehall  ..."  He  paused  impres- 
sively. 

Edward  Hare  was  touched;  his  soft  face  became 
moved  as  by  not  distant  tears. 

"  Good  Lionel  .  .  .  dear  coz  !  Odd's  babers ! 
Do  I  not  tell  thee  thou  shalt  have  her?" 

Ratcliffe  resumed,  casting  his  words  into  space 
with  a  sidelong  watchfulness  as  to  their  effect. 

"Whereas,  mark,  if  Diana  wed  another,  what  of 
thee,  then,  my  cock  ?  'Tis  back  to  the  bare  ancestral 
acres  with  Sir  Edward  Hare.  'Tis  farthing  toss  and 
small  ale.  For  thou  art  poor,  lad,  damned  poor ! 
And  a  poor  baronet  —  fie  !" 

The  poor  baronet  made  a  wry  face.  He  pushed 
his  plumed  hat  off  his  forehead  to  scratch  his  per- 
plexed head. 

"Aye,  small  ale,  plague  on  it!  Farthing  toss  — 
pooh!" 


The  Peacock  Walk  151 


"  }' 


'Twill  ne'er  do,  eh,  Ned!"  laughed  the  other. 

"No,  split  me,  'twill  ne'er  serve  a  man  like  me !" 

Sir  Edward  Hare  rose,  in  his  indignation,  and 
promptly  tripped  again  over  his  sword.  Somewhat 
abashed,  and  trying  the  comfort  of  a  new  angle, 
he  dropped  his  high  tone  once  more  for  one  of 
plaint :  — 

"But,  Lord,  coz,  what  can  I  do?  Di  is  like  the 
bay  filly:  she'll  neither  lead  nor  drive.  Ain't  I 
always  a-singing  your  praises?  'There's  the  hus- 
hand  for  you,  Di,'  say  I.  '  There's  the  lad  for  me,' 
say  I,  twenty  times  a  day." 

Ratcliffe  cursed  his  cousin  in  secret,  as,  rising  in  his 
turn,  he  clapped  him  affectionately  on  the  shoulder. 

"I  marvel  at  you,"  he  bantered.  "And  will  you 
walk  your  filly  to  the  gate  and  expect  her  to  take  it  on 
the  standstill  ?  Is  that  the  way  to  deal  with  a  woman  ? 
Shouldst  say  to  her:  'Hast  noticed  Cousin  Lionel's 
squint?  .  .  .  Prithee,  sister,  have  ne'er  a  thing  to 
do  with  Cousin  Lionel :  'tis  a  sad  bad  man !  Ah, 
there  are  tales,  sister,  terrible  tales  ! '" 

Edward  gaped. 

"Oh,  and  what  will  she  do  then?" 

"Why,  look  into  mine  eyes  the  very  next  time; 
and,  not  finding  the  squint,  perhaps  find  something 
else,  something  in  them  she  never  marked  before." 


152  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

The  young  oaf  nodded  portentously. 

"Aye,"  cried  he,  "and  then — ■" 

"And  then —  Why,  I  see  you  take  me.  Hast 
sharp  wits,  coz  !  —  Then  will  she  begin  to  ponder 
on  those  dark  deeds  of  mine,  and  wonder  about 
Cousin  Lionel,  and  think  him  a  very  different  man 
after  all  from  the  kinsman  who  played  with  her  and 
teased  her  all  her  life.  But,  zounds,  man,  such  a 
cock  of  the  walk  as  thou  art  need  not  be  lectured  on 
the  art  of  love  !  Why,  when  we  get  that  figure  of 
thine  to  Court,  what  a  stir  will  there  be  among  the 
beauties !" 

The  poor  youth  made  no  attempt  to  disguise  his 
flattered  emotion. 

"Ecod,"  he  smirked,  looking  down  at  his  legs, 
"I'll  not  say  but  I  can  hold  my  own  among  the 
petticoats.  He,  he  —  a  word  in  thine  ear,  Lionel : 
Moll,  you  know — "  he  whispered  into  his  cousin's 
curls,  laughing  immoderately.  "And  little  Prudence 
Prue,  down  at  the  Red  Lion  — "  Here  he  whispered 
again  and  guffawed :  "  Odd's  babers,  she  did  !  But 
Di  must  not  hear  of  it." 

With  immovable  gravity,  the  elder  man  sub- 
mitted to  these  boisterous  confidences ;  then,  holding 
his  cousin  from  him  at  arm's  length,  surveyed  him 
with  an  irony  which  must  have  pierced  through 
anything  less  thick-skinned  :  — 


The  Peacock  Walk  153 

"  What  a  blade  you  are  !  There  will  be  no  holding 
you  at  Whitehall!" 

He  suddenly  sighed,  dropped  his  hands,  shook  his 
head,  and  assumed  a  tone  of  melancholy :  — 

"Heigho,  but  we  must  get  thee  to  Court  first! 
And  these  adieus  will  undo  all.  'Slife,  man,  she's 
ripe  for  love.  'Tis  rebound,  'tis  nature.  After  the 
cold  fit,  the  hot  one.  After  old  Harcourt,  the  old 
husband  promptly  and  happily  demised,  Harry 
Rockhurst  the  stripling,  live  and  young!  .  .  . 
After  eighty,  eighteen  ..." 

"Nay,"  interrupted  Edward,  sapiently.  "Harry 
Rockhurst  is  twenty." 

"Aye,"  mused  Lionel,  "and  so  is  our  pretty  Di. 
Lord  !  your  worthy  mother  had  scarce  called  out, 
'Oh,'  of  Diana,  before  my  Lady  Rockhurst  began 
her,  'Ah,'  of  that  young  whelp  !  Well,  by  this  time, 
these  babes  will  have  plighted  their  troth,  if  the 
gods  interfere  not."  He  turned  on  Hare,  his  fierce 
temper  escaping  him  for  an  unguarded  moment: 
"Why  the  foul  fiend  did  you  let  her  ride  over  here 
to-day?" 

Ned  swelled  with  dudgeon. 

"I?     How  could  I  prevent  it,  pray?" 

"Poor  numskull,  how  couldst  thou?"  echoed  the 
other,  half  aside.  — "  Well,  well,  I  fear  me,  I  am 


154  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

caught  in  my  own  springe !  They  might  have 
philandered  all  summer  and  naught  have  come  of 
it.  .  .  .  But  I  must  needs  work  upon  Grandam 
Chillingburgh,  persuade  her  to  summon  the  naughty 
grandchild  in  all  haste  from  a  bad  match  —  and 
'tis  the  parting  will  ruin  all !" 

He  paused,  biting  his  lip  over  vexed  thoughts. 
Then  his  alert  ear  caught  the  fall  of  distant  footsteps. 

"Ah!"  he  cried,  starting,  "yonder  they  come! 
Let  us  to  the  upper  terrace,  Ned,  and  watch  them 
from  above." 

Sir  Edward,  who  had  been  endeavouring  to  hit 
a  bumblebee  with  his  whip,  and  was  lost  in  the 
excitement  of  the  sport,  burst  into  a  roar  of  self- 
applause  at  an  unexpectedly  successful  stroke :  — 

"Saw  you  that?  I  hit  him.  I  hit  him!  ...  A 
great  bumblebee !" 

Ratcliffe  clenched  his  hand,  exasperated.  Then, 
recalling  his  self-control,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
caught  his  cousin  by  the  arm,  and  marched  him 
determinedly  toward  the  upper  terrace  stairs. 


The  two  whose  doings  were  exciting  so  much 
interest  in  Lionel  Ratcliffe's  mind,  came  slowly 
along  the  Peacock  Walk  and  halted  beneath  the 


The  Peacock  Walk  155 

watchers:  a  pair  so  well- matched  in  youth  and 
looks  as  well  to  justify  apparently  the  jealous  kins- 
man's fears.  —  Harry  Rockhurst,  stripling  just 
hardening  into  manhood,  keeping  some  of  his  boy 
graciousness  in  the  virility  of  the  newer  stage,  sun- 
burnt, vigorous ;  with  brown  curls  tossed  back  from 
a  broad  forehead,  and  brilliant  hazel  eyes,  keen  and 
bold  of  vision,  as  should  be  those  of  the  noted  fol- 
lower of  hounds  and  hawk :  by  his  side,  as  tall 
nearly  as  her  cavalier,  Diana  Harcourt,  the  young 
widow,  radiant  with  the  sun  on  her  auburn  hair ! 

As  her  lover  spoke  to  her,  she  listened,  not  un- 
willingly, and  her  glance  rested  on  his  face  with 
pleasure.  Yet  there  was  something  well-nigh  ma- 
ternal in  this  complacence  which  might  have  bidden 
him  pause. 

"Diana,"  the  boy  cried  passionately,  "you  must 
hear  me ;  I  will  speak." 

She  moved  a  pace  from  him  and,  sitting  down  on 
the  bench,  drew  a  hanging  branch  of  wild  rose  to 
the  wild  rose  of  her  cheek. 

"The  last  of  my  country  flowers,"  she  murmured. 

"Stay,"  he  exclaimed.  "Let  me  pluck  you  a 
posy !" 

High  over  their  unconscious  heads,  Lionel  Rat- 
cliffe,  peering  cautiously  over  the  balustrade,  had  a 


156  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

sneer  for  the  childish  eagerness.     But  Diana  took 
the  flowers  with  a  simple  grace. 

"Thank  you,  and  thank  you.  .  .  .  Nay,  how 
sweet  they  are !  And  to  think  that  to-morrow 
evening  w£  shall  be  so  far  away.  'Tis  hard  to  leave 
the  garden  for  the  town." 

("Mark  you,  now,"  whispered  Ratcliffe  over- 
head, nipping  Hare  by  the  arm,  "and  take  a  lesson 
in  Dan  Cupid's  ways.  'Twill  be:  'Think  of  me, 
and  do  not  forget  me !'  And  a  prate  of  hopes,  and 
a  whisper  of  pledges.  And  then  the  word  will  hop 
out  like  a  hot  coal,  Love  !  and  their  little  world  will 
be  all  ablaze  —  And  'twill  be  Love  .  .  .  Love  .  .  . 
Love,  and  everything  lost  if  some  one  be  not  at  hand 
to  spray  cold  water  at  the  right  moment." 

"The  garden  can?"  suggests  the  practical  Ned, 
in  a  mouthing  undertone. 

"Hush!  lad,"  murmured  the  other,  "hast  yet  to 
learn  metaphor.  Nay  —  hark!  Not  a  breath,  on 
thy  life.") 

"I  shall  dream,  I  think,  of  the  gardens  of  Rock- 
hurst," Diana  was  saying. 

"The  gardens?"  echoed  Harry.  He  was  leaning 
against  the  wall,  by  the  bench,  looking  down  at  her, 


The  Peacock  Walk  157 

bending  close.  "Gardens?  Is  that  all  you  regret, 
Mistress  Harcourt?" 

"Fie,"  smiled  she,  "I  am  not  so  ungrateful. 
Shall  I  not  regret  my  friends,  my  neighbours,  good 
Mistress  Rockhurst,  and  yourself?" 

The  boy  drew  back  and  straightened  himself, 
galled  to  the  quick. 

"  My  aunt  —  and  me  !  Truly,  I  am,  madam,  I 
am  proud."  He  flung  himself  away,  his  shoulder 
turned  ostentatiously  on  Diana.  She  laughed  with 
indulgence;  then  sighed.  And,  in  heart-broken 
fashion,  Harry  caught  up  the  sigh. 

("First  stage,  sighs,"  reflected  the  watcher. 
"'Tis  most  harmless.") 

Young  Rockhurst's  dudgeon  was  not  of  long 
duration.  He  edged  along  the  wall  to  the  bench  and 
bashfully  took  seat. 

"So  ends  the  year,"  he  said  softly,  "that  brought 
me  the  happiness  of  paradise  —  Diana." 

"Master  Rockhurst  ..." 

"Must  it  end  thus?"  Suddenly  bold,  he  tried  to 
take  the  fair  hand  idly  clasping  the  posy. 

"Take  care,  sir,"  she  cried  mischievously,  "there 
are  thorns  here." 


158  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

"Ah,"  he  breathed,  "so  that  I  might  gather  the 
roses  ..." 

(And  above  their  heads,  Lionel  Ratcliffe:  "Sec- 
ond stage:  hand-clasps  and  protestations.  Next 
will  come  kneeling  work,  and  next  the  lips.  —  Wary 
now,  for  it  goes  rapidly !") 

"Pray  you,  pray  you,  Harry!"  Diana  chid, 
endeavouring  gently  to  free  her  hand. 

But  the  boy  had  slipped  the  leash  of  his  ardour 
and  was  not  to  be  hushed. 

"O  my  sweet  life,  hear  me,  hear  me  !" 

"I  vow,"  she  said,  half  rebuking,  "I  never  knew 
you  in  this  mood  !" 

"Ah,  I  am  bold,"  he  panted.  "Must  I  not  be 
bold  indeed  for  that  I  dare  to  love  you!"  Saying 
which,  he  fell  on  both  knees  before  her. 

("Is't  not  time  to  stop  them?"  whispered  Hare 
into  Ratcliffe's  ear.  "I  could  drop  a  little  stone  on 
sister  Di's  head." 

"Soft,"  interposed  the  other,  with  his  contemptu- 
ous patience.  "Let  the  children  play  a  little  while 
longer;  'twill  be  the  finer  sport  to  slip  in  'twixt  cup 
and  lip!") 


The  Peacock  Walk  159 

In  truth,  Ratcliffe  was  beginning  to  suspect  that 
he  had  overrated  Harry  Rockhurst's  influence.  If  he 
knew  women,  his  fair  cousin,  below  yonder,  had 
given  no  real  response.  He  had  caught  the  note  of 
indulgence  which  the  wooer  himself  was  too  in- 
experienced to  mark  in  her  accents.  True,  there 
might  lurk  some  danger  even  in  this;  yet  not  such 
as  to  call  for  indiscreet  interference.  He  smiled 
sardonically  as  the  lover's  pleading  rose  passionately 
in  the  air. 

"  Give  me  hope,  Diana  —  one  word.  Ah,  madam, 
give  me  hope  !" 

But  Mistress  Harcourt  rose  and  disengaged  her- 
self  with    some    decision   from    the    young   man's  0 
grasp. 

"Stay,  Master  Rockhurst,  how  can  I  listen  to 
you?  In  truth,  dear  lad,  you  are  over  young  to 
dream  of  such  matters  yet.  Why,  and  what  would 
my  Lord  Rockhurst  say,  could  he  but  hear?  In- 
deed, Harry,  'tis  undutiful  of  you,  without  your 
noble  father's  sanction  —  I  dare  swear  without  even 
his  knowledge." 

"My  father!"  cried  the  boy,  as  if  the  words  had 
struck  him.  "Alack,"  he  added  despairingly,  "this 
sudden  departure,  upon  which  you  have  resolved, 


160  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

has  thwarted  all  my  plans.  Yet,  madam,  you  are 
wrong;  my  father  does  know.  I  have  writ  him  all 
my  heart." 

Diana  turned  the  pale,  fresh  beauty  of  her  face  full 
in  surprise  upon  the  speaker. 

"Aye  —  have  you,  indeed?"  cried  she.  "And 
what  says  his  lordship?" 

The  youth,  emboldened  afresh,  pressed  forward ; 
but  she  kept  him  sweetly  at  arm's  length,  menacing 
him  with  her  posy. 

"He  has  not  answered  yet  —  could  not  have 
answered  yet,  madam.  Natheless,  I  am  his  only 
child ;  he  loves  me :  there  can  be  but  one  answer. 
Diana,  if  that  be  all  that  stands  between  us  — " 

"Nay,"  she  teased,  "and  shall  I  tell  you  your 
father's  answer  ?  '  Ah,  Harry '  (will  his  lordship  say), 
'have  I  kept  thee  secluded  in  the  country,  that  thou 
mightest  grow  strong  in  health  and  virtuous  in  mind ' 
—  for  these,  we  are  told,  are  my  Lord  Rockhurst's 
reasons  — '  and  hast  seen  a  young  gentlewoman 
for  the  first  time  ?  Pack  up,  lad,  pack  and  ride  with 
me  to  London  town;  and  in  a  week  will't  have 
forgotten  her  very  existence!'" 

"How  little  you  know  my  father  .  .  .  how 
little  you  know  me!"  exclaimed  the  lover,  with 
dignity. 


The  Peacock  Walk  161 

"Alas,  child,  this  is  country  innocence.  Do  I  not 
know  something  of  the  ways  of  the  great  world ! 
Your  education  has  not  yet  begun,  all  respect  to  his 
lordship's  judgment.  When  he  has  shown  you  the 
Court,  the  town,  the  quality  —  " 

Harry  Rockhurst  interrupted  her  with  a  vexed 
laugh :  — 

"The  Court,  the  town,  the  quality — why, 
madam,  he  will  not  even  tell  me  of  them.  'Tis  only 
his  duty  as  Captain  of  the  King's  Yeomen  and  Con- 
stable of  the  Tower  that  keeps  him  from  living  here 
among  us  —  the  only  life  he  deems  worthy  of  a  true 
gentleman  :  that  of  the  owner  on  his  estates.  Lon- 
don, he  says,  is  contamination.  Therefore  keepeth 
he  me  here,  though  it  part  him  and  me." 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head :  — 

"And  how  shall  I  find  favour  in  the  eyes  of  this 
strict  gentleman?"  she  said,  in  the  same  fond  tone 
of  mockery.  "I  who  am  gay,  and  think  not  so  ill 
of  the  town,  and  have  no  mind  for  sad  faces  and  dull 
clothes  !  I  fear  me,  Harry,  your  father  is  at  heart  a 
puritan !" 

"My  lord  a  puritan,"  cried  the  boy,  in  fine  scorn 
—  "the  King's  own  private  friend  in  exile,  the  hero 
of  Worcester's  evil  day  .  .  .  why,  Diana,  villainous 
Noll  set  a  higher  price  on  my  father's  head  than  upon 

M 


162  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

any  other  in  England,  save  his  most  gracious 
Majesty's  own  —  sweet  Mistress  Harcourt,  if  that 
were  your  only  fear — " 

Greatly  daring,  he  flung  out  his  arm  to  encircle 
her.  Swayed  by  his  artless  passion,  Mistress  Har- 
court suffered  the  embrace,  but  it  was  with  a  kind  of 
friendly  tolerance. 

A  loud  shout  from  above  drove  them  apart. 

"  Cousin  Di !  —  where  can  she  be  ?  Cousin  Di, 
Master  Rockhurst  .  .  .  !" 

There  was  Lionel  Ratcliffe,  on  the  terrace  above 
them,  shouting  into  space  through  the  hollow  of 
his  hands ;  and  beside  him  Edward  Hare,  consumed 
with  laughter. 

Young  Rockhurst  stamped  his  foot;  but  Diana 
(not  displeased,  perhaps,  at  the  interruption)  glanced 
calmly  up. 

"Here  I  am,  Cousin  Lionel — and  here,  as  you 
can  see,  is  Harry." 

Ratcliffe  leant  across  the  balustrade,  wiping  his 
face  as  though  heated. 

"  Oh,  how  I  have  sought  for  you  !"  he  called. 

"So  it  seems,"  retorted  she,  ironically,  "with 
apparently  never  a  thought  to  cast  a  glance  over  the 
wall." 

He  grinned.  She  was  the  dearer  to  him  for  her 
sharp  wits,  and  for  a  tongue  that  was  even  a  match 


The  Peacock  Walk  163 

for  his  own.  But  what  answer  he  would  have  made 
was  lost  in  a  new  interruption :  the  sound  of  a  post- 
boy's horn  rose  swelling  through  the  quiet  airs, 
and  almost  immediately  the  bell  clanged  from  the 
castle's  gate.  Then  came  calls,  shouts,  and  ru- 
mours. Ratcliffe  straightened  himself  from  his 
leaning  posture :  — 

"What  have  we  here?"  he  cried.  "Ha — Mis- 
tress Alicia !" 

A  stout,  elderly  lady  appeared  at  the  head  of  the 
terrace  steps. 

"Pardon  me,  madam,  a  moment,"  said  Harry  to 
Diana,  and  ran  to  meet  his  aunt.  The  lady  was 
beckoning  with  great  energy :  — 

"News,  lad,  news  from  your  noble  father,  from 
my  dear  brother!"  She  turned  on  the  second  step 
and  raised  her  voice  (never  a  soft  one)  in  vigorous 
expostulation  to  some  hidden  person:  "Hither, 
fellow,  hither,  thou  laggard,  and  commend  thee  for 
a  lazy  loon  !" 

Stirred  by  these  expostulations  the  postboy,  covered 
with  dust  and  sweat,  emerged  upon  the  terrace 
above  at  a  limping  run.  Harry  bounded  up  the  steps 
to  snatch  a  letter  from  his  hands.  He  broke  the 
seal  and  gave  a  cry  of  joy :  — 

"  These  are  news  indeed  !     My  father  will  be  with 


164  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

us  to-night,  nay,  toward  the  fifth  hour  afternoon, 
so  he  writes.  —  Rascal,  you  have  tarried  indeed  !  — 
In  good  truth,  these  are  news  !" 

His  joyful  exclamations  were  lost  in  a  deep  out- 
burst of  lamentation  from  Mistress  Rockhurst. 

'To-day!"  quoth  she,  clapping  her  palms  to- 
gether. "Murrain  take  me,  if  these  be  not  the  ways 
of  men  !  Gilian  !  Basil !  —  get  thee  to  the  buttery, 
knave  !  — Robin  !  .  .  .  Robin!  the  flag!" 

But  the  excellent  housewife  was  not  of  those  who 
waste  their  energies  upon  mere  speech.  As  hastily 
as  her  bulk  would  permit,  she  was  already  hying 
her  way  back  toward  the  castle.  And  the  clamour 
of  her  voice  was  lost  behind  the  yew  hedges.  Harry 
bent  over  the  parapet,  calling  to  Diana,  who  stood 
pensively  where  he  had  left  her. 

"Give  me  joy,  madam;  my  father  will  be  here 
instantly ! " 

Ratcliffe  brushed  past  him  and  came  down  the 
steps  toward  his  kinswoman.  He  laid  a  hand 
upon  her  arm,  and  looking  toward  his  host :  — 

"Then,"  cried  he,  "shall  we  leave  you  to  your 
filial  transport."     He  dropped  his  voice,  to  continue 
maliciously,  in  the  young  widow's  ear:    "Di,  what  ' 
says't  thou?     Shall  we  not  ride   instantly?     Gad, 
were   it   but  a   meeting   'twixt  lover  and   mistress 


The  Peacock  Walk  165 

'twere  something  to  wait  for  —  but  this  business ! 
'My  worthy  father  .  .  .  My  beloved  son!'  'Twas 
ever  a  feast  of  cold  veal,  since  the  days  of  the  prodigal 
—  Though  faith,"  he  laughed,  "  'tis  the  father,  here, 
comes  from  the  husks  to  seek  the  calf  at  home  !" 

And  while  Diana  gazed  upon  his  sharp  face  with 
wonder  and  disfavour,  RatclifTe  hailed  Rockhurst 
once  more :  "  Therefore,  I  say,  good  Master  Harry, 
pray  you  bid  them  call  up  our  horses." 

Young  Rockhurst  protested.  But  Diana,  to 
Ratcliffe's  surprise  and  greatly  to  his  satisfaction, 
instantly  backed  the  request :  — 

"Indeed,  Lionel  is  right;  our  presence  is  out  of 
place  at  this  meeting." 

"Nay,"  implored  Harry,  and  ran  headlong  down 
into  the  Peacock  Walk  again  to  catch  her  hand,  "for 
pity's  sake  ...  no  and  indeed  no,  madam." 

The  lady  disengaged  herself,  settled  her  roses, 
gathered  her  gloves  and  whip  from  the  bench  and 
looped  her  riding  skirts.  Then  she  turned,  and, 
smiling,  courtesied :  — 

"  Indeed  and  indeed,  yes,  sir !  And  since  fare- 
well it  must  be,  why,  then,  farewell !" 

She  wafted  a  kiss  from  her  roses  toward  him. 

"Ah,  no  !"  he  implored,  still  endeavouring  to  arrest 
her. 


166  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

* 

"'Slife!"  cried  Lionel,  impatiently  looking  up. 
"There  rises  the  flag  .  .  .  there  flies  the  noble 
blazon !  Let  it  be  the  signal  for  us.  Come  Di  — 
go,  hurry  the  horses,  Ned  !"  he  shouted  to  Hare,  who, 
astride  on  the  upper  balustrade,  sat  gaping  down  at 
them.  "Blessings  upon  the  Rakehell,"  he  muttered 
to  himself,  as  Diana  motioned  Harry  on  one  side  with 
decisive  gesture. 

"  Nay,  it  is  good-by,"  she  was  saying. 

The  boy  caught  her  fingers  and  the  roses  to- 
gether :  — 

"  Oh,  madam,  will  you  turn  all  my  joy  into  sor- 
row?" 

Here  the  gate-bell  clanged  again. 

"My  father,"  cried  Harry,  starting  toward  the 
steps. 

"Farewell,"  said  Diana,  "and  — " 

"Ah,  no,"  cried  the  poor  lover,  distractedly,  and 
ran  back  to  fling  himself  once  more  before  her. 
"But  a  few  minutes,  dearest  Diana  !" 

She  hesitated  before  his  distress.  Lionel  irritably 
seized  her  arm. 

"Nay,  child,  you  must  come!"  The  touch,  the 
tone  were  overmasterful.  She  flashed  a  haughty 
look  upon  him. 

"Must!  Cousin  Lionel?" 


The  Peacock  Walk  167 

Harry,  seeing  his  advantage,  pressed  it  ardently. 

"  Delay  but  for  five  minutes  !  Sure,  'tis  not  much 
to  ask!" 

"You  foolish  lad!"  said  Diana,  gently.  Then, 
smiling  into  the  passionate  eyes,  "Yet  I  would  not 
seem  churl  to  you.  And  I  will  even  wait  these  five 
minutes  in  the  rose  garden  yonder.  Your  arm  so 
far,  an  it  please  you,  Lionel.  But,  I  pray  you, 
remember  that  there  must  be  no  musts  from  you  to 
me." 

She  moved  away  with  a  very  stately  grace,  Lionel, 
biting  his  lips  upon  a  bitter  smile,  walking  at  her 
side.  Harry  stood  gazing  after  her  as  one  lost  in  a 
dream. 


II 

FATHERLY    WISDOM 

My  Lord  Rockhurst  approached  the  wall  of  the 
upper  terrace  and  looked  down  upon  his  son.  His 
countenance,  naturally  grave,  and  stamped  now  with 
the  pallor  and  fatigue  of  his  lengthy  ride,  grew 
graver  as  he  watched.  Beside  him,  his  sister  threw 
up  scandalised  hands.  But,  as  she  was  about  to 
give  voice  to  her  feelings,  he  arrested  her  with  a 
gesture,  and  went  slowly  to  the  top  of  the  stairs. 
There  he  paused  and  called,  — 

"Harry!" 

The  boy  started,  wheeled  round,  rushed  up  the 
steps,  and  dropped  on  one  knee  before  his  father. 

"My  lord  ...  my  dear  father!" 

Lord  Rockhurst  raised  him,  looked  a  second 
keenly  at  the  young  face ;  then  laying  his  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  walked  down  with  him  toward  the 
bench,  where,  still  without  speaking,  he  took  seat. 
Shaking  her  head  at  her  nephew,  Mistress  Rockhurst 
followed  them  at  some  distance. 

1 68 


The  Peacock  Walk  169 

"Oh,  sir,"  cried  Harry,  impetuously,  "'tis  ten 
months  and  two  days  since  I  last  beheld  your  coun- 
tenance !" 

So  saying,  he  was  about  to  cast  himself  upon  his 
father's  breast ;  when,  with  the  faintest  motion  of 
the  hand,  Rockhurst  restrained  him. 

"And  yet,  didst  show,  even  now,  no  undue  haste 
to  greet  me.  'Tis  the  first  time,  Harry,"  he  proceeded 
in  softer  tones,  "that  thou  hast  failed  to  welcome 
me  before  the  gates.  ...  I  had  looked  forward  to 
that  moment." 

"And  indeed,  nevvy,"  added  Mistress  Alicia,  as 
she  halted,  panting,  before  him,  "'twas  not  pretty 
acted.  'Where's  Harry?'  says  his  lordship.  And 
'twas  old  Giles  held  the  stirrup,  which  had  been  thy 
privilege,  Harry,  since  thou  wert  five  years  old." 

Blushes  chased  each  other  over  the  boy's  face. 
He  could  but  stammer :  — ' 

"Oh,  sir  .  .  .  oh,  father!" 

"Nay,  no  excuses!"  bade  the  Lord  Constable. 

His  son's  cheek  grew  a  darker  crimson  still. 

"The  lady,  sir,"  he  murmured,  "the  lady  I  wrote 
of—" 

Mistress  Rockhurst  snorted  with  increased  in- 
dignation, but  Lord  Rockhurst  was  now  smiling 
dreamily. 


170  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"  A  lady !  sayst  thou  ?  .  .  .  Boy  Harry  and  his 
lady  !  Nay,  then,  a  petticoat  is  like  charity  and  must 
needs  cover  a  multitude  of  sins  !" 

"Petticoats,  indeed,"  ejaculated  under  her  voice 
the  irate  dame  —  "The  hussy  !" 

Lord  Rockhurst  had  no  thought  to  spare  for  his 
sister's  opinions  just  now.  Holding  Harry  at  arm's 
length,  he  surveyed  him  with  shining  eyes. 

"Thou  art  grown  a  goodly  lad.  In  faith,  well- 
nigh  a  man  !" 

He  drew  him  into  his  embrace  and  held  him  close 
a  second.  Then,  releasing  him,  fell  back  with  a 
sigh  of  ease  upon  the  bench;  flung  off  his  mantle 
and  unbuckled  his  sword,  both  of  which  Harry 
respectfully  received  from  his  hand. 

The  traveller  sighed,  took  off  his  hat,  and  ran  his 
fingers  through  his  hair  with  the  gesture  of  con- 
tented weariness. 

"Another  drop  of  cordial,  my  lord,"  cried  his 
sister,  rising,  all  eager  for  service. 

"Nay,"  said  he,  motioning  her  back;  "I  have  all 
the  cordial  I  need  here,  Alicia.  Come  close,  Harry. 
Dost  know,"  proceeded  the  Lord  Constable,  as  his 
son  knelt  beside  him,  "dost  know  I  have  ridden  two 
hundred  miles  these  days,  with  scarce  as  many 
minutes'  rest,  to  put  order  into  thy  business?     That 


The  Peacock  Walk  171 

to-morrow  I  must  e'en  be  jogging  back  again,  for 
his  Majesty  has  need  of  me  ?  Thou  presumptuous 
rogue!"  He  struck  the  lad  on  the  shoulder  as  he 
spoke,  and  seriousness  underlay  his  tone  of  banter. 
"Wouldst  plot  to  make  a  grandsire  of  me  already? 
Mark  those  pleading  eyes,  sister.  .  .  .  Even  so 
did  they  look  up  at  me  when  he  stood  no  higher 
than  my  knee,  and  it  was :  '  Father,  John  black- 
smith has  so  fair  a  pony  to  sell,'  or  'Giles  vows  he 
will  drown  the  red  setter  pup  !  O  father,  I  want  it !' 
Aye,  child,  thou  hast  a  father,  and  'tis  well  for  thee  !" 
His  mouth  twisted  with  a  light  contempt  under  the 
upturned  moustache.     "A  widow!"  he  said. 

"Aye,"  put  in  Aunt  Alicia  vindictively,  "and  a 
delicate,  fine  lady  to  boot.  —  Ah,  nephew,  did  I  not 
tell  thee  his  lordship  would  set  order  here?  What 
doth  Mistress  Harcourt  care  for  still-room  or  buttery  ? 
Could  she  brew  a  bottle  of  gilly  water  ?  Nay  — 
much  less  turn  thee  a  pasty  —  ?" 

"Peace,  peace,  sister,"  rebuked  his  lordship. 
"Harry — "  he  turned  tender,  relentless  eyes  upon 
his  son's  quivering  face,  "thou,  who  wouldst  get 
thee  to  begetting  heirs  already,  what  dost  thou 
know  of  life?" 

The  youth  rose  to  his  feet,  withdrew  a  pace,  and 
looked  earnestly  at  him. 


172  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"As  much,  my  lord,"  he  answered  then,  "as  you 
have  allowed  me  to  know." 

A  moment  the  elder  man  seemed  struck.  He 
gazed  down  at  his  linked  hands  and  reflected. 
Then  he,  too,  got  up.  It  was  with  an  air  of 
finality:  — 

"Faith,  aptly  replied!  Therefore,  son — "  he 
took  the  lad's  arm,  "  thou  must  still  believe  my  will 
best  for  thee." 

Harry  caught  up  his  father's  hand. 

"  Nay,  my  lord,  God  forbid  I  should  even  question 
the  wisdom  of  your  dealings  with  me  !  Truly,  I 
have  never  hankered  after  the  town;  and,  if  I 
have  seen  you  ride  forth  alone  with  a  heavy  heart, 
it  has  only  been  because  of  the  longing  for  your 
gracious  company.  But,  father — "  he  clasped  his 
other  hand  over  the  gloved  one  he  held,  "she 
loves  the  country,  too,  let  Aunt  Alicia  say  what 
she  will."  He  shot  a  flaming  look  of  reproach  at 
the  buxom  lady.  "And  .  .  .  and,  we  should  be 
full  content  to  dwell  here  forever  if  we  were 
married,  sir." 

"Married!"  echoed  Rockhurst.  He  pulled  his 
hand  from  his  son's  clasp  and  passed  it  caressingly 
over  the  beardless  chin.  "Aye,  there's  a  cheek  for 
a   husband,    truly!"     (Mistress   Alicia   broke   into 


The  Peacock  Walk  173 

good-humoured  laughter  and  struck  her  knees  in 
applause.)  "When  thy  beard  is  grown,  we'll  talk 
of  such  matters  again." 

"Oh,  my  lord,"  pleaded  the  lover.  "What  of 
my  age  ?  —  since  you  yourself  were  married  when 
no  older  than  I  am,  as  our  Bible  leaf  shows.  Say 
nothing,  at  least,  till  you  have  seen  her !  She  is 
here,  father,  even  now,  in  the  rosary !  Alack,  she 
has  ridden  hither  to  bid  farewell,  for  to-morrow  she 
sets  out  for  London  town.  And,  oh,  father,  may 
I  not  escort  her?" 

"To  London!"  exclaimed  the  father.  His  face 
grew  dark  with  a  heavy  frown.  "To  London! 
No,  sir,  not  within  fifty  miles  of  the  Babylon  !  How 
now,  art  grown  so  bold?" 

"I  thought  not  of  the  town,"  stammered  Harry; 
"  I  thought  but  of  the  perils  of  the  road  for  her." 
Then,  gaining  assurance,  he  proceeded :  "  Even 
here  there  is  talk  of  Claud  Du  Vail  and  such  bold 
ruffians.  Sir  Edward,  her  brother  ...  Sir  Ed- 
ward, in  truth,  is  a  poor  fool,  my  lord  —  And  Mr. 
Ratcliffe,  her  cousin,  who  rides  with  them,  him  I 
mightily  mistrust.  You  have  given  me  your  blood, 
father  —  will  you  blame  me  now  because  it 
will  not  run  obediently  when  I  think  of  danger 
to  my  lady?" 


174  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Nay,  if  thy  body  kept  pace  with  thy  spirit," 
mocked  Rockhurst,  "what  a  beard  wouldst  soon 
have,  my  callow  son!"  Yet,  though  he  mocked, 
anger  had  fled  from  his  glance  to  be  replaced  by 
fatherly  pride. 

The  tears  rose  to  Harry's  eyes.  The  young  can 
endure  severity  better  than  irony. 

"  Indeed,  I  am  a  child  no  longer,  —  I  am  ever  your 
dutiful  son,  sir,  —  but  I  cannot  give  up  Diana.  My 
lord,  do  but  see  her ;  see  her  now  .  .  .  !" 

"Now?"  cried  the  other,  surprised.  Then  rec- 
ollecting himself:  "True,  didst  say  she  was  in  the 
garden."  His  eye  grew  ever  more  indulgent.  "See 
her,  lad,"  he  went  on,  "aye,  truly.  For  what  other 
purpose  had  I  ridden  all  these  weary  miles  ?" 

With  the  youth,  all  was  once  more  sunshine, 
where,  before,  there  had  been  but  clouds. 

"  Ah,  father,  I  knew  your  indulgence  would  never 
fail  me.  Nay,  I  will  conduct  her  to  you,  on  the 
instant." 

He  started  to  run,  as  he  spoke.  Rockhurst 
watched  the  figure  out  of  sight,  then  laughed  low  to 
himself  and  turned  to  his  sister. 

"I  will  conduct  her  to  you,  on  the  instant,"  he 
repeated.  "Aha  —  and  doubtless  the  pretty  widow 
will  come  as  meekly  at  his  bidding  to  display  herself 


The  Peacock  Walk  175 

as  ever  heifer  to  the  fair.  0  rustica  simpllcitas  /" 
And  laughing,  he  came  back  to  the  bench  and  sat 
down. 

"Indeed,  my  lord,"  said  Mistress  Alicia,  with  as 
much  disapproval  as  she  dared  to  show  to  the  head 
of  the  house,  "here  is  no  matter  for  laughing.  'Tis 
an  excellent  thing,  my  lord,  that  you  should  forbid 
Harry  from  marrying  the  Widow  Harcourt.  And 
truly,  as  you  say,  he's  not  fit  to  wed  for  some  four 
or  five  years  to  come.  And,  of  a  certainty,  she's 
scarce  the  woman  to  manage  a  household  like  this, 
brother ;  not  such  as  I  should  care  to  trust  with  the 
keys.  And  I  think  you'll  not  refuse  me  the  credit 
to  say,  brother,  that  I  have  become  them  well  these 
five  years.  Since,  with  his  Majesty's  most  happy 
Restoration,  your  lordship  also  has  come  to 
your  own  again,  and  placed  me  at  the  head  of 
your  house  —  I  trust,  I  say,  I  have  become  the 
charge." 

"  Indeed,  none  better,"  said  Rockhurst,  absently. 

The  lady  glanced  at  him  sidelong.  Her  comely 
face  took  an  air  of  indecision,  almost  of  timidity, 
foreign  to  the  massive  severity  of  its  lines.  Some- 
thing she  had  on  her  mind,  that  yet  she  feared  to 
utter.  But  lack  of  courage  could  never  be  the 
failing  of  a  Rockhurst. 


176  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"And,  indeed,  my  lord,  so  long  as  you  keep  the 
lad  mewed  up  here,  as  if  he  were  a  girl,  'tis  not  to  be 
expected  that  he  should  get  rid  of  such  like  maggots 
in  his  head.  Why,  the  town's  the  place  for  a  gallant 
young  gentleman  like  Harry.  Your  only  son,  my  lord, 
your  heir !  Think  on  it.  Why,  Court's  the  place 
for  him,  and  you  so  rarely  in  his  Majesty's  favour ! 
He'd  sing  another  song  there,  I  warrant  you." 

Once  again  the  father's  face  grew  dark. 

"  'Tis  my  bird,  sister ;  I'll  have  him  sing  the  song 
I  choose." 

"But  surely,  brother,"  argued  the  doughty  lady, 
scarlet  in  the  face,  "with  you  to  watch  over  him, 
with  your  example — " 

"With  my  example!"  He  turned  suddenly  and 
fiercely  on  his  sister :  "  No,  by  the  Lord,  not  even 
with  such  valuable  aid  as  that,  will  I  trust  my  fine 
lad  into  that  sink  —  that  charnel-house  —  that  pit ! 
Ah,  you  think  yourself  so  wise,  and  prate  of  what 
you  know  not  —  poor  innocent  old  country  virgin. 
I  tell  thee,  woman,  the  taint  is  in  the  very  air.  Eyes, 
ears,  nay,  every  pore,  are  channels  for  the  poison  — " 

"Brother  !"  ejaculated  Mistress  Rockhurst,  huffed 
and  startled. 

But  Rockhurst  proceeded,  his  eyes  fixed  more  as  if 
talking  to  himself  than  to  her :  — 


The  Peacock  Walk  177 

"There,  shame  grows  dearer  than  merit  • — vice 
becomes  as  a  cloak,  warm  and  soft,  in  which  a  man 
takes  comfort.  At  the  mere  thought  of  cold  virtue, 
of  stern  duty,  of  naked  purity,  ugh  !  we  shiver  and 
hug  ourselves  — " 

His  sister  gave  a  faint,  shocked  cry,  and  flung  out 
her  hand :  — 

"  But  not  you,  not  you,  my  lord  !  Surely  these  are 
strange  words." 

"Harry  shall  be  a  man  of  better  stuff,"  the  father 
cried.  "He's  wholesome  now,  body  and  soul,  and 
by  the  Lord,  I  say,  I'll  keep  him  so  !  How  now, 
Alicia,  shall  I  not  have  pure-blooded,  pure-hearted 
grandchildren,  an  I  have  the  mind?" 

For  some  unknown  reason  the  excellent  lady  took 
deep  umbrage  at  this  last  remark. 

"Surely,  surely!"  she  repeated,  tossing  her  head, 
so  that  her  grey  curls  danced. 

"So  let  it  be,  then,"  bade  her  brother.  Then,  in 
a  changed  voice  he  exclaimed :  — 

"Hush,  now,  here  comes  the  country  widow. 
Faith,  the  lad  hath  taste." 

But  here  he  fell  suddenly  silent  and  sprang  up. 
Mistress  Rockhurst,  surveying  him  in  some  anxiety, 
marked  the  extraordinary  change  that  came  over  his 
countenance. 

N 


178  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

"As  I  am  a  sinful  woman"  (she  afterward  told 
her  special  gossip),  "his  lordship  turned  whey-white. 
And  I  do  assure  you,  madam,  his  eyes  blazed  in  his 
head  —  the  like  of  which  I  have  never  seen  before. 
'Twas  almost  as  if  he  and  she  had  known  each  other 
and  had  never  dreamed  to  meet  again.  And  as  for 
my  fine  young  madam,  she  came  along  with  her  eyes 
on  the  ground  —  nay,  the  most  bashful  thing  between 
this  and  York  City.  But  when  she  looks  up  and 
sees  my  lord,  as  white  as  he  went,  she  goes  rosy,  and, 
please  you,  gives  a  kind  of  cry  with  both  her  hands 
outstretched.  That  may  have  been  artfulness. 
And  if  so,  my  lord  met  it  even  as  I  could  have  wished ; 
for  he  but  made  her  a  deep  bow,  and,  says  he  pres- 
ently, in  his  very  grand  way,  '  It  gives  me  pleasure, 
madam,  to  make  your  acquaintance.'  At  which 
you  should  have  seen  how  was  taken  aback  the 
widow !  '  Make  your  acquaintance  '  (mark  me), 
says  he,  which  shows  he  could  not  have  known  her 
before,  after  all." 

Harry,  who  had  brought  his  lady  in  such  pride 
beneath  his  father's  glance,  stood  somewhat  dashed 
in  the  silence  that  followed  Lord  Rockhurst's  cere- 
monious greeting.  By  nature  the  most  unsus- 
picious of  youths,  in  his  simple  existence  he  had 
never  felt  the  necessity  of  studying  inner  motives  in 


The  Peacock  Walk  179 

those  around  him.  He  knew  the  tricks  of  bird  and 
beast,  but  the  secrets  of  his  fellow-creatures  he 
guessed  not  at.  And  so  all  the  tokens  that  his 
aunt's  shrewd  eye  had  noted  were  lost  upon  him. 
His  father  had  been  a  trifle  over-ceremonious  tow- 
ard a  fair  neighbour,  let  alone  the  mistress  of  his 
son's  heart.  And  she,  his  dear  love,  had  blushed 
and  grown  pale,  as  was  but  natural. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  cried  at  last,  anxiously,  "now  that 
you  have  seen  Mistress  Harcourt,  do  you  not  give 
me  some  reason?" 

His  father  turned  a  singular  glance  upon  him. 

"Reason  enough,  lad,"  he  said,  under  his  breath, 
"reason  enough  for  any  folly  !" 

Diana's  clear  cheek  had  now  resumed  its  usual 
pretty  tint ;  but  as  her  young  lover  spoke,  it  deepened ; 
and  at  Rockhurst's  words,  faded  again  slightly. 

"Nay,  my  lord,"  said  she,  speaking  for  the  first 
time  —  her  voice  was  low  and  troubled  —  "I  know 
not  what  Master  Harry  hath  been  saying  of  me.  It 
is  his  kindness  that  he  will  think  so  well  of  me, 
and  —  nay,  I  must  say  it,  Harry  —  'tis  his  fool- 
ishness that  he  will  not  understand  that  he  is  over- 
kind." 

Rockhurst  took  Diana's  hand  from  his  son's 
hold,  where    it    still    rested    unconsciously.     Many 


180  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

thoughts  were  in  his  mind,  as  strangely  conflicting 
as  the  forces  in  his  nature.  His  keen  knowledge 
of  women  and  their  ways  told  him  that  no  woman 
who  loved  a  man  would  have  let  her  fingers  lie  so 
listlessly  in  his  grasp.  "  My  poor  lad  —  she  has 
no  heart  for  him,"  cried  the  father  in  him.  But  the 
man  in  him,  as  yet  unsubdued  by  years  or  sorrow, 
rejoiced.  Here  was  one  who,  nameless  to  him,  had 
yet  shone  like  a  star  in  his  troubled  sky  this  many  a 
month,  for  the  sake  of  one  hour,  snatched,  sweet, 
pure,  sacred,  out  of  an  unworthily  spent  life.  With 
all  that  was  best  in  him,  he  had  wished  to  keep  her 
unknown,  unattainable;  and  here  she  was,  brought 
back  by  fate  into  his  path  ! 

No  one  could  have  guessed  at  the  storm  seething 
within  him  after  his  moment  of  self-betrayal.  His 
usual  polished  composure  governed  face,  voice,  and 
gesture. 

"My  son  has  told  me  much  about  you,  madam, 
truly,"  he  was  saying;  "and  yet  I  see  how  little  he 
has  been  able  to  tell  me." 

'Twas  the  merest  idle  compliment.  The  words 
were  as  artificial  as  the  tone.  Diana  courtesied  in 
silence.  Not  thus  did  she  remember  her  grave, 
chivalrous  protector  in  an  hour  of  doubt  and  peril. 
Nay,  then,  that  memory  had  best  be  effaced  from 


The  Peacock  Walk  181 

her  mind,  since  it  was  his  pleasure  to  deny  it.  Per- 
chance (and  the  thought  was  more  galling  to  her 
pride  !)  though  she  had  so  fondly  kept  his  image 
in  the  deep  recesses  of  her  soul,  hers  had  already 
faded  from  his  thoughts. 

"Indeed,  my  lord,"  she  began,  rallying  her  spirits, 
"I  too — "  but  she  paused,  for  her  brother  and  Lionel 
Ratcliffe  were  approaching,  the  latter  with  his  cool 
air  of  indifference,  the  other  all  agape  with 
curiosity. 

Harry  instantly  took  the  younger  man  by  the  arm 
to  present  him  to  his  father. 

"One  moment,"  rebuked  Rockhurst;  "the  lady 
is  speaking.     Pray,  madam?" 

"Oh,  my  lord,"  said  she,  with  formal  grace, 
"the  poor  sentence  was,  certes,  never  worth  such 
courteous  attention.  I  was  but  about  to  say  that  I, 
too,  have  heard  of  your  lordship  often." 

"Aye?  From  what  source?"  he  asked,  and  a 
shadow  fell  on  his  face. 

But  she  was  smiling. 

"From  this  source,"  she  answered  him,  waving 
her  roses  toward  Harry. 

"Ah,"  cried  Rockhurst,  laughing  upon  a  sigh, 
"no  doubt  the  rogue  has  full  wearied  you  with  the 
subject." 


1 82  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Alas,"  she  responded  quickly,  "must  I  not  take 
this  reproach  to  myself?" 

Lionel  Ratcliffe  pulled  young  Rockhurst  by  the 
sleeve. 

"What,  all  agaze  and  bewildered,  Harry?  Never 
fear,  these  are  but  Court  wits  in  a  friendly  bout. 
Clink,  clink,  the  sparks  fly.  But,  hark  to  you, 
beware  an  unfoiled  weapon." 

The  boy  withdrew  from  his  touch  with  disfavour, 
and  Rockhurst  turned  upon  the  whisperer  a  haughty 
look  of  enquiry. 

"Well  met  again,  my  lord,"  cried  Ratcliffe, 
swaggering  a  step  forward  and  saluting  with  a  cava- 
lier sweep  of  his  hat. 

Rockhurst  returned  the  courtesy  with  a  cere- 
monious inclination. 

"Have  we  met  before,  sir?"  he  enquired. 

No  whit  abashed,  Ratcliffe  replaced  his  felt  with 
the  very  latest  twist  of  the  wrist. 

"  Does  your  lordship  make  it  a  practice,  then,  of 
not  taking  your  memory  out  of  town  ?  To  be  sure, 
memory  is  a  mighty  inconvenient  chattel  at  times. 
Natheless,  'tis  a  fact  your  lordship  and  my  humble 
self  have  met  at  the  same  board.  Did  I  not  share 
with  your  lordship,  last  winter,  the  privilege  of  being 
the  guest  of  the  pretty  Mantes?" 


The  Peacock  Walk  183 

"Enough  —  I  remember  you,  sir,"  said  his  lord- 
ship. 

"Egad,"  laughed  Ratcliffe,  with  elaborate  geni- 
ality, "  I,  sure,  did  take  special  note  of  your  lordship, 
that  night,  seeing  you  with  the  nymph,  our  hostess, 
whom,  I  mind  me,  you  had  but  just  whisked  from 
under  the  very  nose  of  Jove.  Nay,  not  the  first 
time  (if  report  spoke  truly)  that  Old  Rowley  has  been 
cut  out  by  the  Rake  — " 

The  words  were  arrested  on  his  lips  by  a  look  as 
sharp  as  a  sword :  — 

"You  have  too  long  a  memory,  sir.  Shorten  it. 
—  My  son,"  added  the  speaker,  turning  his  shoulder 
upon  Ratcliffe,  "you  were  about  to  introduce  the 
young  gentleman  to  me." 

"My  brother,  Sir  Edward  Hare,  my  lord,"  said 
Diana,  forestalling  her  lover. 

The  interlude  with  Ratcliffe  had  perturbed  the 
group;  and  with  gracious  instinct  she  sought  to 
cover  her  cousin's  insolence  and  young  Rockhurst's 
rising  anger  at  insinuations  incomprehensible  to 
country  dwellers,  yet  the  hostile  intent  of  which 
was  but  too  transparent.  Sir  Edward,  however, 
was  far  from  assisting  her  purpose. 

"Nay,  brother,  brother,"  she  whispered,  as  the 
bumpkin  nodded  sulkily.     "Doff  thy  hat." 


184  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"I  tell  thec,  Di,"  murmured  the  injured  youth, 
"  'tis  he  owe?  me  two  bows  and  a  scrape.  Ecod : 
'the  lady's  speaking,'  quotha !  And  I  with  my  best 
leg  already  drawn  out  for  him!" 

"Your  lordship  must  excuse  our  rustic  manners," 
said  Diana,  with  a  pretty  glance,  half  humorous, 
half  pleading. 

Rockhurst  looked  at  her  a  second  musingly.  — 
Yes,  grace,  youth,  sweetness,  all  were  hers !  And 
fate  had  so  worked  that  it  was  she  who  was  to  em- 
body his  son's  young  love  dream !  Dear  lad  .  .  . 
small  blame  to  him  !  He  gave  an  unconscious  sigh. 
To  his  countenance  came  back  that  air  of  kindness 
which  Harry  had  missed  in  it  so  singularly  since  the 
meeting  with  Diana. 

"Of  your  leave,  my  son,"  said  he,  then,  "I  will 
have  a  few  minutes'  converse  with  Mistress  Har- 
court  apart." 

Harry  pressed  his  father's  hand  in  delighted  re- 
sponse. He  leant  back  against  the  sunny  wall  and 
watched  his  mistress  go  in  grace  beside  the  stately 
figure  of  the  great  Lord  Rockhurst.  Lionel  took 
place  beside  him,  and  from  narrowed  lids  looked 
smilingly  at  the  young  man's  happy  countenance. 

Mistress  Rockhurst,  who,  solemnly  seated  at  the 
end  of  her  bench,  had  been  a  silent  yet  mightily 


■'  ,::  "^^3Py     '"fipiW. Jim    JIJI'MIII      I       II         «ll»l 


Lionel  took  place  beside  him  and  from  narrowed  lids  looked 
smilingly  at  the  young  man's  happy  countenance. 


The  Peacock  Walk  185 

observant  witness  of  the  whole  scene,  now,  suddenly 
struck  by  the  discontented  expression  of  Edward 
Hare's  visage,  addressed  the  youth:  — 

"What  ails  ye,  Sir  Edward ?" 

"I'm  sick  at  stomach,"  growled  the  candid 
baronet.     "I  hate  a  peacock." 

"Yet  peacock  is  light  fare,"  said  the  lady,  with  a 
twinkle  in  her  shrewd  blue  eye.  "Sick  at  stomach, 
say  you?  There's  nothing  better  than  a  cup  of 
marjoram  water." 

Sir  Edward  flung  the  suggestion  from  him:  — 

"Water?     Ugh!" 

"When  I  say  water,"  amended  she,  "'tis  strong 
water,  aqua  vitae." 

"Aye,"  quoth  he,  then,  "that's  another  matter. 
I'm  not  saying  but  a  tass  of  it  would  warm  the 
innards." 

She  despised  him  heartily  for  a  monstrous  poor 
scion  of  a  noble  family;  yet  the  housewife  was  too 
strong  in  her  to  resist  the  pleasure  of  ministering 
out  of  her  store,  even  to  an  unworthy  guest.  She 
rose,  chuckling,  jingling  her  keys:  — 

"Oh,  surely,  surely,"  she  exclaimed,  "this  small 
comfort  shall  not  be  denied  you  here,  Sir  Edward. 
Come  but  with  me." 


Ill 

THE     NEW     FRENCH     PASS 

Rockhurst  and  Diana,  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
terrace,  stood  alone  in  the  sunshine,  with  the  June 
roses  about  them.  —  How  much  more  apart  now  than 
on  that  night  in  the  snow  between  the  black  fir  trees 
and  the  waste  heath !  She  flung  a  sudden,  eager 
look  at  him;  but  before  the  smooth  courtesy  with 
which  he  turned  to  her,  drew  back  into  herself, 
once  more  checked  and  puzzled.  It  was  to  be  as  if 
they  had  only  met  in  a  dream  ?  So  be  it !  Then 
the  thought  that  he  must  now  regard  her  as  his 
son's  choice  broke  upon  her  in  a  flash  of  revelation 
—  and  anger.  Why  had  she  dallied  with  such  folly  ? 
With  an  involuntary  movement  she  loosened  her 
grasp  on  Harry's  roses  and  they  fell  round  her  feet. 

"Why,  madam,"  said  Rockhurst,  with  a  forced 
smile  and  a  perfunctory  solicitude,  "your  posy, 
madam,  all  in  the  dust !  Nay,  permit  me  to  cull 
another  for  you." 

The  man  of  the  world  had  superseded  all  else.  To 
place  his  years  in  rivalry  with  his  son's  youth,  the 

186 


The  Peacock  Walk  187 

King's  Lord  Constable  against  the  country  lad? 
Preposterous ! 

Lionel  Ratcliffe  stood  attentively  watching  his 
kinswoman  from  afar.  Beside  him,  Harry  sat, 
dreaming,  his  young  eyes  fixed  on  God  knows 
what  golden  vision.  All  at  once  the  elder  man 
tapped  his  companion  stealthily  on  the  arm. 

"What  is  it?"  cried  Harry,  starting  from  his 
muse  and  glancing  round  none  too  pleasantly. 
"What  is  it  now?"  quoth  he,  frowning. 

"Look,  look  yonder,  Master  Rockhurst.  Your 
roses." 

Harry's  glance  followed  the  direction  of  the 
pointing  finger.  He  saw  Diana  stand,  a  radiant 
vision  in  the  amber  light,  with  empty  hands  out- 
stretched toward  the  flower  that  Rockhurst  was  in 
the  act  of  gathering,  a  deep  crimson  rose  that  glowed 
like  a  ruby  in  the  sun-rays.  And  about  her  feet  the 
pale,  sweet  blossoms  chosen  for  her  with  such  love, 
but  an  hour  ago  !  The  red  rose  was  carried  to  Diana's 
cheek ;  and  then  she  fastened  it  in  her  bosom.  His 
flowers  had  not  been  so  honoured.  He  could  not 
think  or  reason ;  he  could  only  look  and  suffer. 

Again  Lionel  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  He  was 
smiling.  Harry  came  back  to  his  senses  at  sight  of 
that  odious  smile. 


1 88  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Well,  sir,  and  what  of  it?"  he  cried,  measuring 
Ratcliffe  with  a  defiant  look. 

"  What  of  it  ?  More  than  you  think.  —  What  were 
you  about,  young  man,"  his  voice  sunk  to  a  whisper, 
"when  you  invited  Rakehell  Rockhurst  to  come  and 
view  your  lady?" 

"Rakehell  Rockhurst  .  .  . !"  echoed  Harry  in 
utter  amazement.  Then,  fury  leaping  to  his  voice 
and  eye,  he  wheeled  fiercely  upon  Ratcliffe:  "Of 
whom,  sir,  are  you  speaking?" 

The  latter  proceeded,  unmoved  save  for  a  trifle 
more  of  emphasis  in  his  silky  tone  :  — 

"Did  you  not  know  that  a  single  breath  of  his 
lips  is  enough  to  tarnish  the  virtue  of  the  purest 
woman  in  England?" 

The  younger  man  fell  back  a  step,  and  measured 
the  speaker: — 

"  Of  whom  are  you  talking,  I  have  asked  you." 

There  was  more  self-control  in  his  demeanour, 
but  more  danger.  It  was  tense  with  menace,  like 
a  bent  bow.  A  second  Ratcliffe  paused.  He  had 
not  given  the  lad  credit  for  so  much  real  manliness. 
The  more  reason  for  him  to  precipitate  the  crisis 
for  which  he  was  working;  the  crisis  which  might 
rid  him  of  two  rivals  at  once  —  for  the  courtly 
Rockhurst  was  indeed  a  rival  to  be  reckoned  with. 


The  Peacock  Walk  189 

And  there  was  no  affectation  in  the  passion  with 
which  he  now  broke  out :  — 

"Of  whom,  good  lad?     Of  whom? " 


(Edward  Hare,  strolling  out  of  the  dim  coolness 
of  the  buttery  into  the  sunshine  again,  heard  the 
sound  of  loud  voices  rising  from  the  terrace  below. 
Grinning,  he  advanced  on  tiptoe  and  bent  over  the 
parapet  to  listen.  Cousin  Ratcliffe  and  young 
Harry  were  at  it  at  last !  Even  to  his  dull  wits  it 
had  been  evident  that  the  quarrel  that  had  long 
been  smouldering  between  them  was  bound  to  break 
into  open  flame.  Better  than  a  wench  or  a  bottle, 
better  even  than  cockpit  or  bear-bait,  Sir  Edward 
loved  the  sight  of  a  fight  between  his  fellow-men. 
He  chuckled  as  he  hearkened.) 


"  Of  whom,  good  lad,  of  whom  —  but  the  most 
noble  Viscount,  in  town  the  incomparable  libertine, 
his  Majesty's  merry  friend,  known  by  Whitehall  as 
Rakehell  Rockhurst  —  in  the  country,  thy  sainted 
father !  Aye,  but,  town  or  country,  let  Rockhurst 
get  to  windward  of  a  pretty  woman,  and  the  devil 
will  soon  show  his  — " 


iqo  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Harry  had  stood  a  moment  petrified,  but  before  the 
last  words  were  out  he  had  struck  Lionel  on  the 
lips :  — 

"Liar!" 

Lionel  staggered  back;  a  narrow  streak  of  blood 
was  running  down  his  chin.  In  a  second  he  had 
whipped  out  the  light  riding  sword  that  hung  by  his 
hip,  and  without  a  word  made  a  deadly  rush.  Harry, 
however,  strong  country  lad,  trained  by  all  the  sudden 
accidents  of  sport  and  chase,  had  his  wits  about  him. 
He  stepped  aside  from  the  onslaught,  caught  up 
the  cloak  which  lay  on  the  balustrade,  and  flung 
it  across  the  blade. 

"Now,  if  you  please,"  said  he,  shaking  his  father's 
sword  free  of  the  scabbard,  whilst  Ratcliffe,  almost 
foaming  at  the  mouth,  struggled  with  the  encumber- 
ing folds  as  if  it  had  been  his  enemy  himself,  "let 
us  continue  the  argument." 

It  was  a  prettier  fight  than  ever  it  had  been  Ed- 
ward Hare's  luck  to  behold  at  feast  or  fair.  In  an 
ecstasy  he  hung  over  the  parapet,  jumping  from  one 
foot  to  the  other. 

"Sh!  Sh!"  he  shouted,  "at  it,  good  dogs! 
Ecod,  I  would  not  have  missed  this  for  forty  crowns  ! 
Ha,  well  pushed,  cousin!" 


The  Peacock  Walk  191 

Young  Harry  staggered,  waved  his  sword  aimlessly, 
then  dropped  it,  pivoted  on  himself,  and  fell.  He 
lay,  face  downward,  and  after  a  moment  a  coil 
of  blood,  like  a  slender  serpent,  began  to  move 
sinuously  into  the  grey  of  the  gravel. 

The  peacock,  from  his  perch,  peered  down  on  the 
scene  with  stupid  eyes,  cocking  its  tufted  head 
inanely  from  side  to  side. 

The  approving  smile  was  petrified  on  Edward 
Hare's  face.  He  clapped  his  hand  over  his  mouth 
like  a  frightened  child. 

"Dead,  ecod  !"  he  whispered  to  himself.  Then, 
hanging  further  over  the  wall,  he  hailed  Ratcliffe 
in  a  quavering  shout :  — 

"Hist,  coz  —  hast  never  killed  him?" 

The  victor,  leaning  on  his  weapon,  gazing  in 
sombre  abstraction  at  the  prostrate  form,  started 
and  looked  up.  He  smiled  hideously  with  his 
swollen  lip. 

"Be  it  mortal?"  mouthed  Edward  again. 

Ratcliffe  answered  stonily:  — 

"Mortal?     I  trust  so.     The  affront  was  mortal." 

Then  he  slowly  wiped  his  blade  upon  the  cloak, 
sheathed  it  with  care,  and  walked  steadily  away, 
along  the  path  that  led  to  the  valley. 

Hare  watched  him  go,  till  the  dark  laurel  bushes 


192  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

received  and  hid  him.  Then  he  looked  over  again 
at  the  motionless  figure,  and  in  a  panic,  sent  loud 
calls  ringing  into  the  air:  "Help  here!  Hoy  — 
Hello  !     Master  Rockhurst  hurt,  ill,  —  dead  !  Help  !" 

Rockhurst  was  the  first  to  hear  the  cry.  In  a 
trice  he  was  back  in  the  Peacock  Walk,  kneeling  by 
the  bench.  Hare  was  at  his  heels,  gabbling  his  tale. 
Half  his  words  went  unheeded,  but  some  found 
their  mark  in  the  father's  heart:  — 

"And  Lionel  says:  'Rakehell  Rockhurst'  (he, 
he!).  'A  devil  with  the  women!'  says  he.  And 
Harry  hits  him  across  the  mouth.  'Liar!'  says 
Harry.  Oh,  'twas  a  pretty  quarrel.  'Twas  a 
cracking   slap! — " 

As  Rockhurst  lifted  his  boy  and  supported  him  in 
his  arms,  light  came  back  to  the  eyes  so  dark  in  the 
white  face,  and,  stretching  himself,  Harry  returned 
to  consciousness  and  smiled  up  at  his  father  like  a 
waking  child.  Rockhurst  tore  the  stained  clothing 
apart  with  fierce  hands,  then  drew  a  deep  sigh  of 
relief.  His  experience  in  such  matters  took  stock 
of  the  wound  —  an  ugly  tear  in  truth,  long,  laying 
bare  the  ribs,  but  not  deep. 

"Tis  not  vital— thank  God!  Go,  call  for  help, 
man!"  cried  he  sharply,  looking  up  at  the  staring 


The  Peacock  Walk  193 

Edward.  And  off  trotted  the  lout.  Now  came 
Diana,  hastening,  bewildered. 

Lovers  have  quick  ears :  through  the  dimness  of 
his  returning  consciousness  Harry  caught  the  sound 
of  her  steps.  He  tried  to  raise  himself  in  his  father's 
embrace.  There  was  a  sudden  shame  upon  him  that 
he  had  done  so  womanish  a  thing  as  to  swoon, 
this  day  when,  of  all  days,  he  had  so  much  reason  to 
play  the  man. 

"'Tis  a  mere  scratch,  my  lord,"  he  murmured. 
Then,  with  an  anxious  glance  on  his  father's  face, 
he  added,  stammering :  "  Master  Lionel  was  showing 
me  a  new  French  pass,  and  I  —  I  slipped  — "  He 
broke  off;  never  before  had  he  seen  tears  in  his 
father's  eyes. 

With  a  flutter  like  that  of  a  settling  bird,  Diana 
sank  on  her  knees  beside  them.  With  a  soft  cry, 
full  of  ruth,  she  took  her  boy  lover's  hand.  As 
he  had  passed  her,  running  on  Lord  Rockhurst's 
errand,  her  brother  had  bellowed  his  tidings:  — 

"A  pretty  quarrel!  About  you,  sister!  Ecod  — 
there  was  talk  about  your  virtue  —  and  Master 
Harry's  slap,  and  Coz  Lionel  out  with  his  tuck  — " 

As  with  the  sting  of  arrows  the  words  drove  her 
forward.  Ah,  she  needed  no  further  telling  to  con- 
jure up  the  scene :  her  kinsman  had  spoken  lightly 


194  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

of  her  and  her  young  lover  had  struck  back  the 
insult.  Her  boy  lover !  His  youth,  that  had  been 
his  disability  in  her  eyes,  now  became  eloquent  to 
plead  for  him.  To  see  him  lie  there,  pale  and  blood- 
stained, a  mere  lad.  —  After  the  way  of  women,  on 
the  moment  her  heart  melted  all  to  him. 

"Harry,  Harry!  ..."  she  cried,  and  the  words 
were  tender  as  a  caress. 

Harry  turned  his  languid  head. 

"And  now  I  cannot  ride  with  you  to-morrow  — 
not  even  did  my  lord  so  permit!  Father  .  .  .  !" 
Faintness  was  creeping  over  him  again,  but  he  made 
an  effort.  His  voice  rang  out:  "Father,  will  you 
escort  her?     My  Diana  I" 

It  was  at  once  a  supreme  declaration  of  con- 
fidence and  a  solemn  charge.  The  father  bowed 
his  head. 

"Your  Diana,  lad,  so  be  it  —  I  accept  the  trust." 

Over  the  poor  wounded  body  the  eyes  of  Rakehell 
Rockhurst  met  those  of  Diana.  There  was  a  steady 
sweetness  of  renunciation  in  his,  that  she  had  seen 
there  once  before.  Hers  were  quickly  veiled  again, 
lest  they  betray  the  singular,  sharp  pain  that  filled 
her  heart. 

At  her  swiftest  gait,  important,  yet  showing  no 
alarm,  Mistress  Rockhurst  advanced,  followed  by  a 


The  Peacock  Walk  195 

couple  of  wenches,  bearing  varied  paraphernalia. 
She  had  lived  through  the  wars  —  it  were  a  parlous 
wound  indeed  she  could  not  cope  with.  In  her 
own  hands  she  carried  a  flask  of  renowned  cordial. 
None  too  soon,  it  seemed,  for  the  colour  on  the  pretty 
boyish  head  lying  between  Rockhurst  and  Diana 
was  fading  fast  again. 


THE    KING'S   CUP 


THE    KING'S   CUP 


LITTLE   SATAN 

A  swift  thunder-storm  had  rushed  down  the 
Thames  valley,  passed  over  sultry  London  with 
clamour  and  hail  scourge,  and  was  gone  —  as  sud- 
den and  wholesome  as  a  good  man's  passion.  The 
town  lay,  a  little  dazed,  it  seemed,  gasping  as  one 
astonished,  yet  mightily  refreshed. 

In  the  gardens  of  the  Temple  every  leaf  dripped 
and  shone  the  brighter;  the  dry  earth  drank  and 
sent  up  a  fragrance  to  mingle  with  the  scent  from 
the  historic  rose-bushes  of  the  inner  pleasance,  the 
glory  of  which  now  lay  scattered,  white  and  red, 
on  the  turf,  each  petal  with  the  tears  in  its  heart 
glinting  under  that  sky  of  incomparable  blue  that 
reveals  itself  after  the  squall. 

Down  the  steep  slope  from  King's  Bench  Walk, 
mimic  mountain  torrents  rushed  in  haste,  seeking 
the    river   which    rolled,    heaving   still,    a    troubled 

199 


200  "  My  Merry  Rockhursl  " 

yellow,  in  angry  ebb  toward  the  cast,  where  the 
clouds  still  lowered   in   their  flight. 

Even  in  Whitcfriars  --  that  strange,  knavish 
demesne  lying  at  the  very  gates  of  the  great  legal 
college;  that  debatable  land  of  crime,  of  statutory 
or  at  least  traditional  immunities  —  every  dark 
lane  had  been  swept  as  with  besoms,  if  not  clean,  at 
least  less  foul.  The  stale  airs  of  Alsatia  (as  the 
cant  word  went  to  express  that  sanctuary  of  trick- 
sters and  cheats  and  huffing  bullies,  of  skulking 
debtors,  rejected  clergymen,  and  disbarred  lawyers, 
of  gaudy  courtesans  in  enforced  retreat)  were  driven 
forth  before  the  fresh  and  mighty  breath  of  the  gale. 
The  gutters  ran  gurgling,  overflowing  where  they 
would.  Here  and  there  a  choked  conduit  sent  mock 
waterfalls  from  overhanging  eaves,  darting  and 
splashing  even  to  the  opposite  walls.  All  Alsatia, 
which  had  scuttled  to  its  burrows,  was  beginning 
to  pop  its  head  out  again;  but,  as  the  denizens  in 
the  'Friars  have,  as  a  rule,  rare  change  of  garment, 
few  ventured  as  yet  into  the  slop  and  drip. 

Thus  the  two  youthful  gallants  who  now  emerged 
from  the  Half  Moon  Tavern,  in  Priory  Lane,  had  the 
length  of  the  street  to  themselves. 

"Quelle  peste  — !"  said  the  slighter  and  darker 
of  the  two. 


The  King's  Cup  201 

Stepping  gingerly  aside  to  give  wide  berth  to  the 
dismal  carcase  of  a  cat,  he  received  the  spray  from 
an  odorous  gutter-spout  full  in  the  neck — -and 
again  exclaimed  in  French  against  the  pestilential 
offence  of  the  place. 

His  companion  nipped  him  by  the  elbow,  as 
he  himself,  less  fastidiously,  strode  over  the 
carcase. 

"Fie,  Vidame,"  he  cried,  "'tis  well  we're  not  at 
Whitehall !  Never  forget  'tis  a  forbidden  word, 
just  now." 

The  Vidame  Enguerrand  de  Joncelles  tossed  his 
black  curls  with  a  somewhat  scornful  look  at  the 
speaker. 

"In  verity,  Sir  Paul,"  he  retorted,  in  his  precise, 
quaintly  emphasized  yet  fluent  English,  "I  believe 
that,  eating,  drinking  or  sleeping,  Court  rules  and 
Court  favour  are  never  out  of  your  head !  As  for 
the — "  his  long  dark  eyes  glinted  mischievously — ■ 
"as  for  the  ugly  distemper  which  begins  with  a  letter 
P.  in  both  our  tongues,  what  have  people  of  quality 
to  do  with  it  ?  Bah  !  it  is  to  kill  the  canaille  —  use- 
ful, like  rat-bane." 

"Yet  ...  if  you  will  come  into  Alsatia — " 
grumbled  Sir  Paul  Farrant ;  and  just  then,  a  gush 
of  intolerable  stench  striking  across  them  from  an 


202  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

open  cellar  door,  he  drew  his  laced  kerchief  from 
his  breast  and  buried  nose  and  mouth  in  its  folds. 

The  Frenchman  went  steadily  on,  scarce  a  flicker 
of  disgust  on  his  narrow,  pale  face.  —  If  high-born 
disdain  was  safe  to  keep  the  plague  at  a  distance, 
certes  the  Vidame  de  Joncelles — King  Charles's 
new  favourite  page  at  Whitehall  —  was  proof 
against  it. 

There  was  silence  between  the  comrades,  until  the 
worn,  muddy  steps  of  the  Temple- Gate  brought 
them  up  from  the  unwholesome  precincts  of  White- 
friars  into  the  green  and  airy  spaces  of  the  King's 
Bench  Walk.  There,  shaking  out  his  kerchief, 
Sir  Paul  resumed  his  interrupted  complaint :  — 

"If  you  will  come  to  Alsatia  ..." 

"If  your  misunderstanding  townsfolk  will  drive 
the  best  fence  master  within  your  shores  to  take 
sanctuary  in  yonder  pit  —  for  the  merest  pec- 
cadillo—" 

"Peccadillo,  Vidame! — Why,  the  man  drew  on 
our  host  of  the  Three  Tuns  in  Westminster,  and 
slit  both  his  ears,  for  refusing  to  serve  him  with  a 
flagon  of  claret  on  trust  .  .  .  !" 

"Perdi,  a  wretched  innkeeper!  It  was  an  inso- 
lence that  deserved  worse  —  The  hog  is  not  dead  ! 
—  Meanwhile,   instead  of  suiting  my  convenience 


The  King's  Cup  203 

and  practising  my  sword-play  in  Westminster,  I 
must  now  come  seek  him  in  this  pestilent  lane  !" 

"Why,  Master  Enguerrand,"  said  Farrant,  stand- 
ing still  on  the  wet  sod  to  stare,  half  in  amazement, 
half  in  admiration,  at  the  Vidame,  "the  fellow 
owed  him  a  reckoning  as  long  as  his  sword." 

"And  what  of  it  ?  Is  not  such  a  master  as  Laper- 
riere,  whose  lot  in  life  it  is  to  deal  with  us  nobles, 
one  of  those  whom  gentles  daily  cross  sword  with 
and  condescend  to  take  instruction  from,  is  not  such 
an  one  to  be  privileged  ?  A  reckoning,  forsooth ! 
A  master  of  fence,  with  us  in  France,  Sir  Paul,  is 
held  a  gentleman.  Our  King  has  even  ennobled 
many.  And  those  others  there,  the  rabble  —  are 
they  not  made  and  born  for  our  service  ?  As  for  the 
rest,  as  for  this  Plague  that  is  about,  speak  no  more 
of  it.  If  you  are  so  frightened  of  a  little  smell, 
what  brings  you  day  by  day  to  the  fencing  room 
with  me?  —  It  is  your  own  doing." 

"Aye,"  said  Farrant.  "But  think  you,"  he  went 
on  in  hurt  tones,  "I  would  let  you  alone  to  such 
dangerous  grounds  as  Whitefriars  —  you  a  stranger 
and  my  friend,  Vidame?" 

They  were  strolling  slowly  down  across  the 
gardens  toward  the  river  stairs.  The  Vidame,  as 
if    tired    by    his    exertions    in  the    fencer's    room, 


204  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

let    himself  drop  on  a  stone  bench  in  the  central 
alley. 

"Let  us  rest  awhile,  please  you,  Sir  Paul.  As  you 
see,  the  tide  is  still  running  out.  The  turn,  which  is 
to  take  us  back  to  Whitehall,  is  not  due  until  after 
five  o'clock.     Let  us  wait  here." 

He  doffed  his  plumed  beaver  and  hung  it  upon 
the  cane  by  his  side ;  then  turned  his  pale,  dis- 
sipated face,  with  a  smile  of  cynical  amusement, 
toward  his  companion.  Sir  Paul  Farrant  was  only 
one  of  the  many  friends  who  had  gathered  so  as- 
siduously about  the  young  Frenchman  —  a  page  in 
the  train  of  Madame  Henriette,  sister  of  the  King  — 
since  his  Majesty  had  taken  so  strong  and  sudden 
a  fancy  to  him  as  to  retain  him  in  his  personal  ser- 
vice after  her  departure  for  France. 

"See  how  the  world  wags,"  resumed  the  favourite 
then;  "you,  Sir  Paul,  seek  the  dens  yonder,"  —  he 
pointed  to  the  sinister  purlieus  they  had  just  left 
behind,  —  "because  of  -a  friend — I,  because  of  an' 
enemy." 

Farrant  pricked  his  ears  under  his  silken,  fair 
curls.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  admitted 
even  so  far  into  the  Vidame's  confidence.  This 
Enguerrand,  a  French  boy  who  in  a  few  months' 
time  had  stepped,  it  seemed,  without  the  slightest 


The  King's  Cup  205 

effort  into  the  inner  circle  of  Court  favour,  upon  the 
outer  rim  of  which  the  indefatigable  Sir  Paul  had 
scarce  a  footing,  was  an  enigma  to  his  associates. 
He  had  a  handsome  sister ;  but  his  success  depended 
not  on  her,  for  had  she  not  denied  the  King  for 
the  sake  of  the  King's  friend,  Lord  Rockhurst? 
It  was  an  open  secret  in  Whitehall.  Enough  to  have 
damned  the  chances  of  any  other  man,  it  would 
seem !  Yet  here  was  the  lad,  with  his  white,  hand- 
some, secret  face ;  with  his  silent,  insolent,  easy 
ways ;  with  his  deep  moods,  his  sudden  rages,  as 
close  to  his  Majesty,  as  audacious  and  as  secure  of 
his  position  as  young  Monmouth  himself.  Farrant 
had  witnessed  his  first  introduction  —  he  knew  that 
there  was  no  secret  tie,  no  mystery  save  in  the  new 
page's  own  personality.  Sir  Paul,  the  failure, 
would  have  given  all  he  possessed  for  the  talisman. 
Yet  the  talisman  was  no  such  occult  thing,  but  an 
unfailing  talent  to  amuse  that  most  melancholy  man, 
whom  the  world  liked  to  call  the  Merry  Monarch. 

"An  enemy,  say  you,  my  good  Enguerrand?" 
cried  the  young  baronet,  lifting  his  foolish  eyebrows 
a  trifle  higher  than  nature  had  set  them.  He  had  the 
curiosity  of  trivial  natures  and  was  all  agog. 

"Aye,  perdi,"  responded  the  other,  briefly. 

The  wind  was  ruffling  his  dark  head,  blowing  the 


2o6  "  My  Merry  Rockhursl  " 

heavy  curls  off  the  forehead ;  making  patent  at  once 
the  extreme  youth  and  the  prematurely  worn  coun- 
tenance. 

"And  you  are  then  a-practising  against  a  ren- 
counter. ...  O,  Master  Enguerrand,  I  pray  you 
that  I  be  your  second  !" 

"Why,  you  shall  so,  then."  The  words  dropped 
from  the  other's  lips  in  careless  condescension. 

Enguerrand 's  eyes  were  lost  in  space.  Across 
the  river,  between  the  merry,  white,  flying  clouds  and 
the  green  fields  of  Surrey,  he  saw  Heaven  knows 
what  bloody  vision  of  triumph. 

"And  he  —  the  man,  the  enemy?"  asked  Sir  Paul, 
after  a  while. 

"Him  whom  I  shall  kill  .  .  .  with  that  little 
escaping  thrust  of  our  Laperriere  .  .  .  yes,  it  shall 
be  that  ....  the  great  man?  Yet  none  so  great, 
Sir  Paul,  but  that  he  must  himself  defend  his  honour 
.  .  .  and  none  so  old  but  that  he  be  as  much  man 
as  I  —  even  as  I  am  none  so  young  but  that  I  am 
as  much  man  as  he  .  .  ." 

At  which  cryptic  utterance  he  folded  his  delicate 
lips  on  silence. 

Farrant  stared.  There  was  one  to  whom  the 
words  applied  ;  one  to  whom  the  brother  of  Madame 
de  Mantes,  as  all  Whitehall  was  aware,  might  well 


The  King's  Cup  207 

owe  grudge.  But,  forsooth,  that  one  was  so  high 
placed,  a  personage  of  so  much  importance,  that  he 
dismissed  the  idea  as  preposterous.  Farrant  indeed 
had  many  a  secret  grudge  himself  against  this  power- 
ful being,  against  his  haughtiness  and  the  lash  of  his 
cold  mockery ;  but  he  would  as  soon  have  dreamed 
of  seeking  satisfaction  from  his  Majesty's  own  person. 

Enguerrand  had  fallen  into  a  deep  muse.  His 
comrade  began  to  find  the  silence  tedious,  and  took 
to  counting  the  passage  of  the  barges  through  the 
opening  of  the  Temple  water-gate,  chattering  in 
comment : — 

"Yonder  went  the  fat  master  of  the  Curriers, 
Tyrrell,  with  his  pretty  daughter — would  I  had  as 
good  a  chance  with  her  as  that  stout  prentice  who  sits 
behind  the  good  man's  back  .  .  .  !  Ah,  and  yonder 
went  Master  Lionel  Ratcliffe  —  mark  how  his  men 
pull  as  if  life  and  death  depended  on  their  oars. 
I'll  wager  you,  he's  bound  for  Chillingburgh  House. 
.  .  .  But,  no,  the  skiff  keeps  its  nose  down-stream. 
.  .  .  The  tide  will  soon  be  on  the  turn.  —  Eh,  as 
I  live,  here  comes  a  royal  barge  —  mark  the  swing 
of  the  scarlet  oars !  Old  Rowley  himself,  per- 
chance —  nay,  sink  me,  it  is  but  the  Lord  Constable  ! 
Odd  !  I  was  thinking  of  him  but  a  moment  awhile 
...     I  .  .  .     'Slife,  there's  no  mistaking  that  dark 


208  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

figure  !  I  vow  he  casts  a  shade  over  the  royal  scarlet 
itself.  Merry  Rockhurst,  quotha !  Has  any  one 
ever  seen  him  smile,  except  in  mockery?  How 
now  ?  Why,  the  barge  heads  for  the  Temple  stairs  ! 
—  What  may  the  Constable  of  the  Tower  be  seeking 
in  the  Temple?" 

The  babble  died  abruptly  on  his  lips,  so  singular 
a  change  had  he  marked  coming  over  his  com- 
panion's face :  a  spasm  of  vindictiveness  followed 
by  a  slow,  evil  smile.  A  chill  ran  through  Farrant's 
frame.  He  was  no  coward,  but  he  would  have  given 
much  to  recall  his  rash  offer  of  a  few  minutes  ago; 
for  he  had  read  in  the  Vidame's  eyes  the  name  of 
his  enemy. 

The  barge  swung  with  masterly  ease  to  the  land- 
ing. A  quick  word  rang  out  from  the  head  water- 
man, and  the  glistening  oars  were  tossed  in  the  air. 
The  red  of  the  men's  jackets,  the  crimson  of  the 
barge's  drapery,  stained  to  rich  depths  and  un- 
expected tints  of  orange  by  weather  and  usage,  made  a 
gay  picture  amid  the  sparkle  of  the  water,  the  dancing 
shine  and  shadow,  in  which  the  figure  of  the  Lord 
Constable  was  indeed  a  note  of  striking  gravity. 

The  wind-ruffled  feathers  of  the  beaver  were  black, 
even  as  the  curls  that  fell  on  his  shoulders.  A  black 
cloak,  silver-trimmed,  was   cast  loosely  back   as  he 


The  King's  Cup  209 

stepped  from  the  barge,  revealing  a  body-dress  of 
so  sombre  a  purple  as  to  seem,  if  possible,  of  more 
severe  a  tone  than  the  cloak.  The  keen,  pale 
face,  with  the  hawk's  eyes,  the  silver  amid  the 
raven-black  of  the  cavalier  moustache  and  beard,  — 
which  it  was  the  great  Lord  Rockhurst's  pleasure  to 
preserve  in  spite  of  the  newer,  clean-shaven  fashion, 
—  all  combined  to  produce  a  singularly  impressive 
personality. 

Paul  Farrant  felt  upon  himself  that  sense  of  ob- 
trusive inferiority,  of  almost  physical  discomfort, 
which  the  presence  of  the  Lord  Constable  scarcely 
ever  failed  to  evoke.  His  lips  formed  themselves 
for  a  soundless  whisper.  He  twirled  his  grey  beaver 
on  the  end  of  his  cane ;  and,  upon  a  second  thought, 
tossed  it  to  his  head  as  giving  him  an  air  of  greater 
ease  and  self-possession. 

The  French  boy's  countenance,  on  the  contrary, 
seemed  now  to  have  become  lit  by  a  kind  of  inner 
fire  that  was  almost  like  inspiration.  Sir  Paul  heard 
him  speak  to  himself,  in  French  —  a  tongue  which 
he  knew  but  imperfectly :  — 

"He  has  come!  Why  not  now  .  .  .  why  not 
this  moment !  .  .  .  Pardi,  why  not,  my  Lord  Rock- 
hurst?" 

As  he  muttered  the  words  the  Vidame  laid  his 


210  "My  Merry  Rockhurst'" 

hat  and  stick  deliberately  on  the  bench  and  rose. 
Farrant,  his  discomposure  increasing  well-nigh  to 
horror,  watched  him  step  forward,  tossing  back 
his  heavy  locks,  as  raven-black  as  Rockhurst's 
own;  and  in  the  pallid,  fine-cut  young  face  he 
noted  for  the  first  time  an  odd  resemblance  to 
Rockhurst  himself. 

In  the  minutes  that  next  followed,  while  his 
English  friend  remained  sitting  as  if  spellbound, 
Enguerrand,  the  stranger  in  the  land,  went  through 
the  crisis  of  his  life. 

So  swiftly  did  the  scene  pass  that  the  men  in  the 
barge  below  had  but  the  time  to  push  off  once  more 
and  swing  but  a  single  stroke  on  the  return  journey 
to  the  humour  of  the  tide. 

Rockhurst,  walking  sedately  up  the  alley,  with  a 
sweep  of  his  tall  cane  to  every  other  step,  halted  as 
he  saw  the  young  man  approach ;  and  into  his  gaze, 
which  had  been  somewhat  abstractedly  fixed  upon 
the  fair  green  of  the  garden,  there  flashed  a  strange 
look. 

Sir  Paul  Farrant  was  scarce  a  man  of  nice  ob- 
servation, yet  he  could  have  sworn  that  my  lord's 
eyes  had  for  a  second  held  a  gleam  of  indulgence 
almost  approaching  to  tenderness,  as  they  had 
lighted  upon  the  lad. 


The  King's  Cup  211 

"Well  met,  my  Lord  Viscount!"  cried  Enguer- 
rand,  in  a  high,  excited  voice.     "Aye  —  well  met!" 

If  Lord  Rockhurst's  glance  had  been  kindly, 
it  was  swiftly  and  marvellously  altered.  Intolerably 
mocking  now  and  cold  it  became,  to  match  the  tone 
of  the  response :  — 

"Well  met  .  .  .  Little  Satan  !" 

Enguerrand  had  been  holding  his  passion  upon 
a  frail  leash.  With  a  bound  it  now  leaped.  This 
man,  by  whom,  at  their  first  meeting  in  Whitehall, 
he  had  conceived  himself,  in  his  hypersensitive 
French  punctilio  of  vanity,  to  have  been  slighted, 
and  who  had  treated  him  from  the  height  of  his 
crushing  superiority,  who  had  thwarted  and  humili- 
ated him,  robbed  him  (as  he  held)  of  his  sister  and 
his  preferment  at  one  swoop  —  how  dare  he  now 
address  him  in  this  tone  of  contemptuous  familiarity  ? 
It  was  well  met  at  last,  indeed  !  The  moment  he 
had  dreamed  of,  sleeping  or  waking,  these  two 
months  was  within  his  grasp  ! 

"My  lord,"  he  cried  still  more  shrilly,  "his 
Majesty's  familiar  name  for  me,  on  any  other  lips 
becomes  a  liberty,  an  insolence !  An  insolence,  sir, 
a  liberty  I  will  not  permit !" 

To  his  mortification  he  found  himself  trembling 
from  head   to   foot.     For  an   appreciable   moment 


212  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

Rockhurst  ran  his  glance  up  and  down  the  slight 
figure.  Then  he  made  answer;  and  the  indiffer- 
ence, the  placidity,  of  his  manner  was  inconceivably 
galling :  — 

"True  —  I  should  not  usurp  his  Majesty's  great 
privileges.  But,  pray,  let  me  pass,  Vidamc  —  I 
have  business  with  Master  Sergeant  Stafford,  and 
I  am  already  late,  I  fear,  for  my  tryst." 

"Nay,  milord,  you  shall  not  pass!  —  My  lord, 
this  is  my  tryst.  It  has  been  your  pleasure  to  heap 
injuries  on  me,  and  on  more  than  one  score  you  owe 
me  redress.  We  meet,  at  last,  oh,  at  last !  upon 
ground  where  the  royal  ordinance  no  longer  stands 
between  us.  My  Lord  Viscount  Rockhurst — " 
He  was  feverishly  stripping  his  glove  from  his  left 
hand  as  he  spoke ;  but  the  Lord  Constable,  with  a 
single  gesture,  swept  him  and  his  argument  from 
the  path  with  no  more  emotion  than  that  of  a  man 
who  rids  himself  of  an  importunate  fly.  With  the 
same  measured  step  he  then  resumed  his  course  up 
the  garden  alley. 

For  a  second  the  Vidame  stood,  staring  after  him, 
paralysed  with  rage.  A  faint  snigger  —  of  mingled 
relief  and  amusement  —  from  the  watcher  on  the 
bench  started  him  to  fresh  action,  as  the  prick  of  the 
spur  starts  the  mettled  horse.     In  a  couple  of  leaps 


The  King's  Cup  213 

he  had  overtaken  the  stately  figure,  and  Sir  Paul 
Farrant  wheeled  round  to  gaze  after  the  pair, 
astonishment  as  much  as  prudence  keeping  him 
rooted  to  his  place.  Enguerrand  dashed  the 
glove  at  Lord  Rockhurst's  feet.  The  first  impulse 
had  aimed  it  at  the  face ;  but  something  stronger 
than  himself,  which  the  while  only  increased  his 
fury,  prevented  the  youth  from  offering  this  su- 
preme insult  to  one  whom  years  and  honours  and 
personal  dignity  placed  apart  even  in  the  King's 
presence. 

"My  lord,  you — -because  I  am  a  stranger,  be- 
cause I  am,  forsooth,  young  enough  to  be  your  son 
(a  Dieu  ne  plaise!),  you  imagine  you  can  treat  me 
at  your  will  and  pleasure ;  insult  me  at  your 
mood  ...  I  stand,  however,  a  man  before  you,  my 
Lord  Constable  —  with  a  name  as  good  as  yours. 
I  demand  my  satisfaction.  .  .  .  My  lord,  I  charge 
you,  defend  yourself!" 

The  young  heart  beat  so  fast,  rose  so  high  in  his 
throat,  that  the  words  pulsed  from  his  lips  in  jerks, 
broken  with  quick  breaths.  He  drew  his  rapier  with 
an  almost  frenzied  gesture  as  he  spoke;  dashing 
baldrick  and  scabbard  on  one  side ;  falling  back  to 
swing  the  blade  with  dire  menace  and  then  springing 
forward  again,  high-poised,  tiptoe,  only  the  element- 


214  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

ary  rules  of  honour  keeping  him  from  assault  until 
his  enemy  should  have  likewise  unsheathed. 

A  second  or  two,  marked  by  the  lad's  panting, 
Lord  Rockhurst  fixed  him  through  half-closed  eye- 
lids. Then,  without  a  word,  with  a  dexterous, 
irresistible,  upstroke  of  his  cane,  he  knocked  the 
weapon  from  the  fierce  hand.  The  springy  steel 
fell  and  bounded  like  a  live  thing  on  the  flagged 
path,  to  drop  again,  quivering,  close  to  Rockhurst, 
who,  with  a  lightning  swiftness  unexpected  from  one 
of  such  majestic  bearing,  instantly  clapped  his  foot 
upon  it. 

Then  the  whole  precincts  of  the  garden,  it  seemed, 
were  filled  with  the  thunder  of  his  voice : — 

"Malapert  .  .  .  !"  The  Lord  Constable's  brows 
were  now  drawn  over  his  keen  eyes  in  a  withering 
frown.  "This  cane  of  mine  should  teach  your 
youthship  better  manners  were  it  not  for  this  same 
strangcrhood  of  yours,  on  which  you  thus  presume  ! 
Aye,  and  you  should  have  remembered  this  day, 
even  with  stripes,  but  that  some  freak  of  your 
Maker's  hath  given  you,  graceless  lad  as  you  are, 
Vidame,  a  singular  look  of  my  own  gracious  son. 
For  his  so  sweet  sake  .  .  .  thou  varlet  ...  I 
spare  thee.  Yet  will  this  hour  have  taught  thee 
that  his  Majesty's  officers   are  not   to  be  molested 


The  King's  Cup  215 

with  impunity  —  that  the  Page  of  the  Wine  Flagon 
can  have  no  satisfaction  to  demand  of  the  King's 
Lord  Constable,  what  though  his  petty  vanity  may 
be  a-smarting  from  some  imagined  slights.  — 
Slights,  quotha !  Young  master,  —  there  can  be  no 
slights  from  me  to  you  .  .  .  !  And  for  this  inso- 
lence of  yours  to  me,  take  you  home  this  memento." 

With  another  of  his  startlingly  sudden  movements, 
Rockhurst  stooped  for  the  hilt  of  the  sword  that  lay 
bent  under  his  foot ;  and  snapped  the  blade  in  twain, 
with  as  much  ease  as  one  may  snap  a  twig.  Tossing 
the  hilt  back  at  the  Vidame's  feet,  he  went  on  — 
and  it  seemed  that  his  anger  had  but  gathered  in 
intensity  with  the  action:  — 

"  Hang  yonder  stump  of  steel  in  your  bedchamber : 
it  may  serve  to  remind  you  of  a  fruitful  lesson  learned 
in  the  Temple  Gardens  —  how  the  satisfaction  fit 
for  a  pert  page's  receiving  is  a  sound  whipping,  and 
how  you,  of  my  mercy,  escaped  receiving  it!" 

He  stepped  from  the  broken  blade,  passed  the 
boy's  rigid  figure  so  closely  and  indifferently  as  to 
brush  him  with  his  cloak,  and  set  his  deliberate 
way  again  toward  the  Temple  Hall. 

The  Vidame  stood  stricken  with  impotent  passion, 
sick  well-nigh  to  swooning  with  the  violence  of  his 


216  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

fury  in  conflict  with  his  complete  helplessness; 
white  as  wax,  his  boyish  face  distorted,  his  eyes 
blood-injected,  swimming  in  tears;  a  white  foam 
at  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  his  lips  drawn  back  in 
voiceless  execration.  The  nails  of  his  clenched  hands 
drove  themselves  into  the  flesh.  It  was  not  until 
Paul  Farrant  rose  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder 
that  the  palsy  was  broken. 

The  Vidame  shook  the  touch  furiously  from  him. 
His  bloodshot  eyes  rolled  from  the  broken  weapon 
on  the  path  to  the  other's  face,  on  which  a  malicious 
pleasure  in  his  successful  friend's  mortification  was 
but  ill  concealed  by  a  scarcely  more  tolerable  air  of 
sympathy.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  mutilation  of  his 
weapon,  Paul  Farrant's  life's  blood  might  well  have 
assuaged  the  Frenchman's  esctasy  of  hatred  at  that 
moment. 

Then  the  floodgates  were  loosed.  Foaming,  the 
tide  of  passion  leaped  from  Enguerrand's  mouth  with 
an  eloquence  that  betrayed  his  race.  Usually  silent, 
the  Vidame  de  Joncelles,  encompassed  with  an 
almost  northern  reserve,  yet  was  through  his  mother 
a  child  of  the  south  ;  and  at  this  hour  all  the  exuber- 
ance of  the  warm  land,  all  the  acrid  passion  that 
only  its  children  can  feel  and  which,  felt,  must 
find  word  expression,  broke  from  him  in  torrents 


The  King's  Cup  217 

of    imprecations    and    curses,    half    French,    half 
English : — 

"  Go  thy  way,  then,  my  merry  Rockhurst  —  go, 
Rakehell  Rockhurst !  Ha,  Rakehell  thou  mayst 
be,  but  forget  not  then  that  I  am  Little  Satan,  and 
you  but  the  servant  of  my  Great  Father!  .  .  .  Go 
thy  way,  sanctimonious  hypocrite,  you  of  the  grave 
face  and  grey-sprinkled  hair,  hoary  in  corruption ! 
You,  put  me  out  of  your  path  .  .  .  !  My  hour  will 
come,  my  hour  will  come,  my  hour  will  come ! 
Faugh !  I  spit  at  thee ;  my  clean  blade  was  too 
fair  for  thee,  thou  coward,  thou  bully,  hiding  behind 
thy  state  and  thy  years  .  .  .  !  And  that  prate  of 
paternity !  I,  like  thy  son  ?  .  .  .  Had  I  within 
my  veins  a  drop  of  thy  coward,  hateful  blood,  I'd 
drain  them  and  die  laughing  that  I  was  rid  of  thee ! 
Look  at  the  great  man  .  .  .  !  Look !  Watch 
the  reverend  seigneur !  See  how  yonder  wretches 
make  way  for  my  Lord  Constable !  —  My  Lord 
Coward  !  .  .  .  Look  you,  Sir  Paul,  is  it  not  an 
admirable  spectacle  ?  The  King's  friend,  the  mighty 
in  council,  the  example  to  the  Court !  Hi,  my  Lord 
Rockhurst  —  Hi,  thou  pattern  of  nobility  —  what 
of  my  sister,  what  of  Jeanne  de  Mantes  ?  .  .  .  And 
afraid  to  fight  the  brother !  Look,  look,  friends ! 
Ha,  he's  old  enough  to  be  my  father,  and  my  sister 


218  "  M y  Merry  Rockhurst" 

—  'tis  his  boast !  I,  like  his  son,  forsooth  ?  And 
my  sister  has  but  a  year  of  life  more  than  mine  ! 
O,  que  I'&ge  a  ses  privileges  I  Oh,  how  that  paternal 
heart  beats  to  high  thoughts !  Curse  thee,  burn 
thee,  drown  thee  .  .  .  coward!" 

Stragglers  in  the  garden,  attracted  by  the  wild 
clamours,  had  now  begun  to  gather.  Up  the  slimy 
steps,  from  the  'Friars,  like  obscene  beasts  venturing 
furtively  from  their  lairs,  the  frowzy,  arrogant  heads 
of  thieving  bullies, —  "Knights  of  the  Posts"  and 
"Copper  Captains,"  —  scenting  a  profitable  quarrel, 
began  to  emerge.  And  these  were  shadowed  by 
dismal  shapes  of  womanhood,  such  as  in  those 
haunts  were  never  far  from  the  scenes  of  strife, 
like  to  the  hovering  carrion  bird. 

The  Vidame,  in  his  paroxysm,  cared  as  little 
whether  his  words  were  flung  to  the  solitary  winds  or 
to  a  thousand  listeners.  As  the  Lord  Constable's 
cloaked  figure  disappeared  altogether  from  view 
under  the  Hall  archway  of  the  Inner  Temple,  the 
boy's  outburst  culminated  in  an  almost  eastern 
flight  of  malediction:  — 

"May  your  shadow  bring  a  blight  wherever  it 
falls  .  .  .  !  May  your  loves,  your  hopes,  your 
desires  be  bitter  as  ashes  .  .  .  !  May  your  own 
flesh  and  blood  turn  against  you !     May  you  blast 


The  King's  Cup  219 

the  life  of  your  own  son  till  he  wishes  he  had  never 
been  born !  Curse  you  .  .  .  !  May  your  own 
flesh  and  blood  curse  you  !  May  you  want  and  never 
get  —  seek  and  never  find  !  May  your  pillow  be 
haunted  and  your  waking  a  horror  !  May  your  wine- 
cup  poison  you  and  the  pest  follow  you  and  break 
out  under  your  footsteps !  May  fire  consume  your 
pride  and  your  hair  grow  white  in  misery,  in  dis- 
honour, and  then  may  Death  be  deaf  to  your  call —  !" 

He  fell  back  against  a  tree,  breath  failing  on  his 
lips ;  flung  one  arm  against  the  bole  and  rested  his 
brow  upon  it.  Then  the  tears  which  his  fire  of  rage 
had  burned  from  his  eyelids  threatened  to  over- 
whelm him  in  the  weakness  that  follows  on  all  such 
unnatural  paroxysms. 

Sir  Paul  Farrant  stood  a  moment,  dubious.  He 
glanced  from  the  figure  against  the  lime  tree  to  the 
dingy  rabble  that  were  drawing  ever  closer  in  grin- 
ning curiosity  and  unholy  expectation.  —  In  sooth 
(was  the  thought  gathering  strength  in  his  mind) 
the  little  new  star  of  Court  favour  seemed  like  to  be 
quenched  !  Yonder  was  the  lucky  youth  (to  dare 
to  beard  the  Lord  Constable.  ...  It  had  been 
safer,  almost,  to  have  affronted  the  King  !)  broken  by 
a  mere  twist  of  that  strong  hand  ! 

A  couple  of  Templars,  grave-looking  young  men, 


220  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

had  halted  a  few  paces  away ;  and  now,  with  a  low- 
voiced  murmur  to  one  another  and  an  angry  glance 
of  scorn  flung  at  the  gentry  that  the  clamour  had 
gathered  from  below  the  steps  into  their  trim  gardens, 
they  passed  on  their  way. 

Farrant  was  quick  to  read  the  omen.  Henceforth, 
it  seemed,  Enguerrand  de  Joncelles,  the  King's 
favourite,  would  have  to  seek  associates  in  such 
doubtful  and  dangerous  company  rather  than 
among  gentlemen  of  standing  who  had  a  care  for 
their  reputation  and  advancement. — The  sprightly 
Vidame  .  .  .  threatened    with    a    whipping  —  aha ! 

So  Sir  Paul  replaced  his  beaver  with  a  hasty 
gesture  and,  cautiously  treading,  took  path  across 
the  turf  toward  the  water-gate,  where  he  reckoned 
to  find  his  skiff  in  waiting.  The  while  his  friend 
wept  corrosive  tears  against  the  bark  of  the  lime 
tree. 

The  "Brothers  of  the  Huff,"  the  Daughters  of 
Joy,  and  other  good  companions  of  Alsatia,  who  had 
awaited,  expecting  sport,  glanced  at  each  other  in 
disappointment.  Upon  the  disappearance  of  the 
Templars,  one  of  their  number  made  a  dash  for 
the  silver  hilt  on  the  ground;  closely  hustled  by 
a  second,  swift  to  perceive  the  intention.  This 
latter  had  to  be  content,  however,  with  the  broken 


The  King's  Cup  221 

blade,  and  a  scuffle  would  have  ensued  had  not  a 
burly  personage,  who  seemed  to  have  authority 
among  them,  put  an  end  to  the  dispute  by  possessing 
himself  of  the  spoils  and  hustling  the  others  back  to 
the  stairway. 

A  girl  in  tawdry  finery  now  tripped  stealthily 
toward  the  young  man,  who  was  so  completely  lost 
in  the  abstraction  of  his  misery  to  all  his  surround- 
ings, that  he  never  felt  the  nimble  touch  that  drew 
from  his  pocket  the  laced  handkerchief,  nor  woke  to 
actuality  until  her  screech  of  laughter  rang  into  his 
ears. 

Here  another  woman  sprang  from  the  watchful 
group  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  flung  herself 
between  the  pilferer  and  the  Vidame,  as  he  stood 
staring,  white-faced  and  shaken. 

"As  for  you,"  cried  she,  "march  !" 

The  outflung  gesture  that  accompanied  the  words 
seemed  to  cow  the  thieving  strumpet. 

As  the  girl  slunk  away,  cursing  "French  Joan  and 
her  tantrums,"  yet  in  evident  awe  of  her,  the  new- 
comer put  forth  her  hand  and  touched  the  Vidame's 
wrist. 

Looking  at  her,  dazed,  he  recognised  Laperriere's 
black-browed  sister:  a  strange,  sinister  figure  of 
uncertain    age,  and    with    sullen    remains  of   what 


222  "My  Merry  Rockh'urst" 

must  have  been  great  beauty,  who  was  wont  to  sit 
moodily  stitching  in  the  little  antechamber  to  the 
fencing  master's  room.  She  had  never  a  word  for 
him  as  he  passed  daily  to  and  fro,  but  a  long,  deep 
look :  the  same  look  was  now  plunging  into  his  eyes. 
Having  gained  his  attention,  she  dropped  her  hand 
from  his  and,  folding  her  arms  with  a  gesture  of 
some  dignity,  began,  in  French,  low-voiced  and 
rapid :  — 

"  Hate !  Hatred  !  Oh,  la  haine  .  .  .  !  I  have 
known  it,  my  young  lord  !  But  nothing  my  brother 
can  teach  or  do  will  help  you  here  !  What  use  is  the 
sword  and  the  skill  of  it  against  him  who  will  not 
fight?" 

Enguerrand  stared  at  her.  Then  into  his  fixed 
glance  of  despair  sprang  a  sudden  kindling  flash, 
in  response  to  the  strong,  devouring  gaze  that  still 
held  his. 

"You  cursed  too  loud,  mon  joli  seigneur.  Oh, 
too  loud  .  .  .  !  When  one  wants  revenge,  one  must 
be  silent!" 

"Revenge  .  .  .  !"  echoed  Enguerrand,  with  such 
a  cry  as  a  despairing  lover  might  give  as  he  echoed 
his  mistress's  call. 

"Hush!"  said  she  whom  Alsatia  called  French 
Joan,  two  brown  fingers  on  her  lips. 


The  King's  Cup  223 

She  bent  forward,  lowering  her  voice  still  more, 
although  the  mocking  rabble  that  pressed  about 
them,  only  kept  at  bay  by  her  hard  and  watchful 
eyes,  could  have  made  nothing  of  her  foreign 
speech :  — 

"Yet  you  spoke  well,"  she  went  on.  '"May  the 
wine-cup  poison  you !  —  May  the  pest  follow  you 
and  break  out  under  your  footsteps  .  .  .  ! '  A  man 
may  find  that  in  his  cup  which  will  give  him  quick 
passage  ...  as  quick  and  quicker  than  the 
pest,  believe  me.  He  might  have  drunk,  and  the 
wine  have  lain  as  pleasant  on  his  tongue  as 
ever ;  and,  lo  !  —  before  he  can  call  for  his  second 
draught  the  pest,  it  seems,  has  stilled  his  heart  —  or 
so  will  every  one  say  in  these  days :  swooning, 
mortal  sweat  and  burning  fire,  death,  all  within 
the  hour.  .  .  .  The  pest,  indeed,  all  who  had 
seen  it  would  swear.  Not  a  sign  lacking:  except 
that  it  strikes  so  quick,  so  quick  —  no  time  for 
remedies !  And  yet  'tis  not  the  pest.  It  holds 
within  a  small  thimble.  He,  mon  joli  seigneur. 
A  treasure  for  those  who  understand  hate.  My 
brother  brought  back  his  best  sword-passes  from 
Italy  —  I  brought  back  better  .  .  .  the  acquetta 
.  .  .  eh,  my  pretty  lord?  The  Tofana  drops,  for 
them    you    hate  .  .  .  !     You   may   trust    me  .  .  . 


224  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

they  have  been  tried :  else,  maybe,  we  should  not  be 
here  .  .  .  and  your  luck  would  thereby  be  the  less. 
If  fate  gave  you  the  chance  of  mixing  such  a  cup  for 
the  one  you  curse,  what  would  you  give  to  fate?" 

"All  I  possess,"  whispered  the  Vidame,  hotly. 
"Anything  she  asked  !" 

Again  the  deep,  inscrutable  eyes  brooded  upon  him. 
Then  French  Joan  showed  her  white  teeth  in  a  smile 
that  gave  a  kind  of  lurid  beauty  to  her  dark  face. 

"Well,  we  shall  see," she  said ;  "maybe  I  shall  ask 
much,  maybe  I  shall  ask  little.  .  .  .  Give  me  your 
hand,  my  pretty  gentleman,"  she  cried,  raising  her 
voice  into  sonorousness  again,  and  speaking  in 
broken  English:  "I  will  lead  you  back  to  my 
brother's.  I  have  a  cordial  for  such  weakness.  — 
Lean  on  me !" 

Jeers  and  shouts  responded  from  the  greasy 
steps. 

"  Lean  on  French  Joan,  Master  Frenchman ! 
French  Joan  has  a  cordial  for  weak  gentlemen!" 

"Marry!"  cried  the  girl  who  had  stolen  the  ker- 
chief, "will  he  come  out  alive  again,  think  ye, 
masters?" 

"Rather  him  than  me,  with  French  Joan!" 
roared  the  youngest  ruffler,  clapping  his  arms  around 
her  waist. 


II 

THE   VENETIAN   GLASS 

"Little  Satan,"  said  Charles,  "a  plague  on  all 
women,  I  say !" 

The  King's  page  started  from  the  gloomy  muse  in 
which  he  had  been  gazing  out  of  the  window  recess 
of  the  royal  room  in  Whitehall,  at  the  flowing  tide 
below. 

"Amen  —  your  Majesty!"  he  answered,  with  an 
attempt  at  sprightliness,  the  impotence  of  which 
brought  a  frown  to  the  discontented  face  turned 
upon  him.  "As  the  times  go,  your  Majesty's  wish 
carries  the  charm  of  possibility.  ...  If  all  one 
hears  be  true,  the  plague  hath  taken  already  not  a 
few—" 

"Little  Satan,"  said  the  King,  "many  sins  can 
be  pardoned  to  your  infernal  reputation ;  but  there  is 
one,  Odd's  fish  !  unforgivable.  .  .  .  You  are  grow- 
ing monstrous  dull,  you  are  tedious.  You  lack  tact, 
too,  by  the  Lord  !  Fie,  is  it  page's  business  to  put  his 
master  in  mind  of  what  he  had  better  forget  ?  — 
Q  225 


226  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

The  veriest  young  cit  would  know  better  than  to  prate 
in  our  ears  of  what  they  would  fain  be  deaf  to.  .  .  . 
Gadzooks,  little  boy,  did  we  pick  you  out,  think  you, 
French  and  pert  and  joyous,  for  our  Page  of  the 
Bottle,  that  you  might  ape  our  long-faced  puritan 
ways  and  go  mooning  about  our  person,  clapping 
your  hand  to  your  heart,  sighing  like  furnace  or 
lover?" 

Here  a  chuckle  shook  the  long,  lazy  figure  sunk  in 
the  Flemish  chair. 

"Is  it  love?  Marry,  it  can  be  but  love!  Little 
Satan  in  love!"  cried  the  King,  avid,  in  the  deep 
weariness  of  his  existence,  for  the  slightest  pretence 
of  amusement.  "  Come,  confess  —  Dan  Cupid  has 
shot  his  arrow  into  that  sulphureous  young  heart  of 
thine  !  My  little  devil's  in  love  —  and  being  in  love, 
has  been  as  dull  company,  these  three  weeks,  as  any 
angel  that  ever  flapped  wings." 

The  Vidame  had  left  the  window  recess  and  now 
stood  before  the  King.  His  hand  had  indeed  gone 
to  his  heart,  with  what  seemed  an  habitual  gesture. 
He  dropped  it  by  his  side  and  hung  his  head ;  a 
dull  colour  crept  into  his  cheeks  and  faded  again. 
Never  burdened  with  any  superfluity  of  flesh,  he 
yet  had  grown  noticeably  thin  these  three  weeks, 
and  the  healthy  pallor  of  his  face  had  been  replaced 


The  King's  Cup  227 

by  feverish  tints  as  of  one  wasted  by  haunting, 
unsatisfied  fires. 

His  royal  master  surveyed  him,  half  irritably,  half 
concernedly :  — 

"  Come,  little  Enguerrand  —  the  name  of  the 
cruel,  the  obdurate  one?" 

The  page  again  arrested  with  a  jerk  the  involuntary 
motion  of  his  hand  to  his  breast,  flung  back  his  head 
and  suddenly  laughed. 

"Your  Majesty,  she  is  beautiful,  if  dark;  and  I 
believe  that  I  shall  kiss  her  on  the  lips  before  long." 

But  Charles,  though  the  most  easy-going  of  mon- 
archs,  could  rebuke  undue  liberty  by  a  mere  up- 
raising of  one  heavy  eyebrow.  This  sign  of  dis- 
pleasure and  the  silence  with  which  he  received  his 
page's  seemingly  pert  answer  brought  the  blood 
leaping  again  into  Enguerrand 's  wasted  cheek.  If 
he  could  hate,  this  passionate  youth,  he  could  also 
love;  and  he  loved  Charles  with  an  intensity  only 
second  to  his  hatred  for  the  Lord  Constable.  He 
shook  his  curls  over  his  face  to  hide  his  confusion. 

Charles  yawned  and  sank  a  fraction  lower  in  his 
great  chair.  For  a  man  who  demanded  but  one 
thing  of  life,  —  that  it  should  run  even,  —  fate  was 
playing  him  sorry  tricks  these  days.  Sickness  and 
discontent   were   growing   apace    in    the    kingdom, 


228  "  My  Merry  Rockhursl  " 

money  difficulties  were  pressing  increasingly  upon 
him,  the  progress  of  the  war  was  doubtful,  the 
quarrels  of  the  Stewart  and  the  Castlemaine  made 
Whitehall  a  place  of  vast  discomfort;  and,  besides, 
there  were  the  interlacing  circles  of  intrigue  spun 
about  him  by  consort,  children,  brother,  ministers, 
divines,  ruined  loyalists,  aspiring  mistresses. 

"Odd's  fish!  Little  Satan,"  he  resumed,  good- 
humoured  even  in  his  exacerbation,  "can  you  not 
consult  your  Great  Father  and  find  me  an  hour's 
diversion?" 

"  Will  your  Majesty  be  pleased  to  survey  the  pres- 
ent of  Venetian  glass  sent  by  his  Majesty  of  France  ? 
—  The  chandelier  has  been  suspended  from  the 
ceiling  of  the  small  supper  room,  the  great  mirror 
hung  upon  the  wall,  and  the  drinking  vessels  laid 
out  on  the  buffet  —  according  to  your  Majesty's 
order.      I  saw  it  done  this  morning." 

"Pshaw!"  said  the  King. 

When  these  instructions  had  been  given,  he  had 
planned  a  discreet  party  in  the  newly  adorned 
chamber.  But,  two  had  heard  of  an  invitation  that 
one  only  had  received.  And  the  royal  temper  was 
still  smarting  from  the  consequent  recriminations. 
He  thought  back  on  the  distasteful  scene,  now,  with 
renewed  injury :  — 


The  King's  Cup  229 


"Gad,  I'll  banish  the  petticoats  .  .  .  though, 
by  the  Mass,  the  periwigs  are  little  better !  I 
shall  have  Buckingham  drawing  on  Hamilton 
for  the  privilege  of  annexing  my  Venetian  glass!" 
He  chuckled  bitterly  at  the  sense  of  his  own  too 
easy  good  nature.  "I  trust  they've  nailed  the 
mirror  fast,"  he  cried  aloud;  "I  am  told  it  is 
mighty  fine." 

Yet  there  was  one  of  his  chosen  companions  who 
had  never  sought  for  either  advancement  or  booty, 
and  who  had  a  humour  that  fitted  well  with  his  own 
in  these  moods  of  reaction,  when  the  voluptuary 
yielded  to  cynical  melancholy. 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Charles,  suddenly  lifting  him- 
self in  his  seat  with  an  animation  he  had  not  hitherto 
shown,  "it  is  a  week  or  more  since  I  have  seen  my 
1  Merry  Rockhurst.'  Get  you  to  the  Tower,  Little 
Satan,  as  fast  as  your  black  wings  can  carry  you. 
Bid  my  Lord  Constable  to  the  rescue.  Tell  him  I 
am  dull,  que  je  m'ennuie,  Vidame,  et  qu'il  vienne 
s'ennuyer  avec  moi,  for  I  am  persuaded  he  is  as  dull 
as  I  am.  'Tis  the  fate  of  good  wit  in  a  weary  world. 
How  now  —  not  gone  ? " 

"Sire,"  said  the  lad,  in  a  toneless  voice,  "Lord 
Rockhurst  is  at  Whitehall.     I  saw  him  at  his  writing 


230  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

but  just  now,  as  I  passed  the  window  of  his  apart- 
ment." 

"All  the  better  fortune!  Haste,  then,"  said  the 
King.  "But  hark  ye,  Little  Satan:  Rockhurst 
alone !  God  forbid  there  should  be  a  flounce  near 
our  presence  to-night !  Bid  the  Lord  Constable 
come  and  crack  a  bottle  with  us  as  in  the  old  days 
of  Flanders." 

A  rueful  grin  spread  over  his  saturnine  counte- 
nance. Castlemaine  and  Stewart  had  been  over- 
much for  him  this  morning  in  their  division :  united, 
against  a  new  rival  —  no,  the  thought  was  beyond 
the  pale  of  contemplation ! 

Once  outside,  in  the  great  corridor,  filled  already 
with  evening  gloom,  Enguerrand  paused  :  — 

"  Bid  the  Lord  Constable  come  and  crack  a  bottle 
with  us  .  .  .  !"  The  boy  flung  back  his  head  and 
breathed  sharply,  through  dilated  nostrils,  as  if 
scenting  ecstasy.  His  moment,  —  so  long  brooded 
upon,  desired  with  such  acrid  ardour,  —  was  it  at 
last  within  his  grasp?  His  hand  went  up  to  his 
breast  with  that  gesture  that  had  attracted  the  King's 
notice.  Aye,  there  it  lay  over  his  heart,  the  tiny 
phial  of  French  Joan  !  Day  and  night  he  felt  it, 
burning,  biting  into  his  soul ;  day  and  night  he  heard 
it  whispering,  urging,  at  once  tormenting  and  delight- 


The  King's  Cup  231 

ing.  Since  that  horrible  hour  in  the  Temple  Gardens, 
it  was  all  he  had  left  to  look  for  in  the  world.  His 
life,  shamed  in  his  own  eyes,  was  a  worthless  thing. 
That  other  life  once  swept  away,  nothing  would 
matter  that  could  befall  him,  be  it  death  or  disgrace. 
He  went  to  sleep  every  night  holding  the  phial 
against  his  heart.  .  .  .  His  Vengeance,  dark  and 
beautiful  .  .  .  !  as  the  lover  holds  his  lady's  guer- 
don. The  moment,  was  it  actually  drawing  at  hand 
when  he  was  to  kiss  her  on  the  lips  ? 

He  gave  a  sudden  laugh  —  secret-sounding  yet 
triumphant,  the  abandoned  laugh  of  the  madman 
over  his  obsession  —  which  startled  a  sleeping  page 
at  the  end  of  the  passage  as  with  a  sense  of  terror 
in  the  air,  and  he  set  off  running  on  his  errand,  past 
the  astonished  servants. 

When  he  reached  the  Lord  Constable's  Whitehall 
apartment,  by  the  Holbein  gateway,  his  lordship 
was  still  sitting  at  his  table  in  the  dusk,  apparently 
absorbed  in  some  deep  revery ;  so  deep  indeed  that 
he  stared  at  Enguerrand  with  unseeing  eyes.  The 
white-haired  servant  had  twice  to  repeat  the  announce- 
ment :  "The  King's  page,  my  lord,  with  a  command 
from  his  Majesty,"  before  his  master  roused 
himself   to    attention.      Then   the   Lord    Constable 


232  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

turned  his  fine  head  questioningly  toward  the 
messenger. 

Engucrrand  bowed  low,  tasting,  in  a  kind  of  inner 
intoxication,  the  full  sense  of  his  own  irony :  — 

"His  Majesty  bids  you  to  supper,  my  lord,  to 
crack  —  these  are  his  Majesty's  own  words  —  a 
bottle  of  Rhenish,  as  in  the  old  days  of  Flanders. 
His  Majesty  is  melancholy  and  —  commands  that 
you  come  and  be  melancholy  with  him." 

The  faintest  shadow  of  a  smile  passed  over  the 
grave,  listening  countenance.  Any  one  who  once 
came  under  the  gaze  of  those  brilliant,  haunting  eyes 
of  the  Lord  Constable's  could  well  conceive  that  such 
an  order  was  of  easy  obedience.  He  sat  in  melancholy, 
as  his  royal  master  sat  in  tedium :  hence  the  subtle 
pleasantry  of  'my  Merry  Rockhurst.'" 

"Thank  you,  Vidame,"  said  he,  half  rising,  with 
a  formal  inclination  of  the  head.  "Inform  his 
Majesty,  if  you  please,  that  I  attend  instantly." 

The  French  boy  had  to  pause  outside  the  gateway 
door,  to  battle  with  the  suffocating  rage  that  suddenly 
invaded  him.  Rather  would  he  have  received  fresh 
insults  from  his  enemy  than  this  perfect  courtesy  — 
a  courtesy  which  at  once  seemed  to  remember  and  to 
pass  over.  In  that  last  glance  that  rested  upon  him, 
in  that  deep,  brooding  look,  there  had  almost  lurked 


The  King's  Cup  233 

(or  so  he  thought)  pity.  Pity !  Enguerrand  tore 
open  the  ruffle  at  his  throat  and  gasped  for  breath. 
Then,  as  swiftly  as  it  had  come,  the  paroxysm 
passed.  Weakling,  to  waste  his  energies  on  fruitless 
curses  !  Was  not  his  hour  nigh,  and  did  he  not  need 
the  cool  head,  the  steady  hand,  the  quick  eye  ?  .  .  . 
He  once  had  offered  his  honour  and  his  sword  for 
a  chivalrous  test  .  .  .  they  both  had  been  broken 
and  cast  from  him.  .  .  .  Vastly  well !  Now  would 
he  pass  the  secret  thrust  for  which  there  is  no  parry ! 
He  fastened  his  ruffle  again  with  fingers  that  now 
scarcely  trembled.  And,  as  he  ran  back  to  the  royal 
apartment,  he  broke  shrilly  into  a  stave  of  song: 
that  same  jrondeur  lilt  that  had  tickled  the  royal 
ears  from  Sister  Jeanne's  lips  on  yonder  night  when 
she  had  met  fortune  and  jilted  her  —  at  the  King's 
supper  party:  — 

"  La  Tour,  prends  garde,  la  Tour,  prends  garde, 
De  te  laisser  abattre  ...   / ' 


•  >) 


rose  the  high  notes. 

"Master  Page,"  said  a  yeoman  sternly,  "have  you 
taken  leave  of  your  wits  ?    The  King  is  within  .  .  ." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Enguerrand,  poising  him- 
self for  a  moment  on  one  springing  foot,  and  looking 
back  over  his   shoulder  like  some   light   Mercury 


234  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

in  satin  and  ringlet.     "I  know,  good  old  greybeard, 
and  'tis  I  serve  his  Majesty's  supper  to-night!" 

Then,  as  he  leaped  forward  again,  he  took  up  the 
song,  under  his  breath,  this  time,  and  in  English, — 

"  Tower,  have  a  care,  O  Tower,  beware  !" 

Halfway  down  the  corridor  he  paused  once  more, 
and  once  more  looked  back :  — 

"Look  out  for  my  Lord  Constable  of  the  Tower, 
you,  Master  Beefeater  ...  for  he  sups  with  the 
King  to-night !" 

His  laugh  echoed  as  he  disappeared  in  the  ante- 
chamber. 

"A  murrain  on  these  French  crickets  to  whom  his 
Majesty  is  fain  to  give  what  should  belong  to  honest 
English  lads  !"  grumbled  the  yeoman,  as  he  ordered 
his  halbert  with  a  thud.  "'Tis  mercy  we  have  such 
gentlemen  as  my  Lord  Constable  about  the  person — 
to  keep  balance.  And  here  indeed  comes  my  noble 
lord." 

Rockhurst  halted  a  second  beside  the  old  yeoman. 
The  gnarled  hand  that  grasped  the  halbert  had  lost 
one  finger:  Rockhurst  knew  in  what  fight.  Kings 
may  forget  what  leal  subjects  have  suffered  for  them, 
and  ladies  what  lovers  have  sighed  and  served, 
but  the  captain  forgets  not  the  man  who  has  stood  in 


The  King's  Cup  235 

his  ranks.  Rockhurst's  hair  was  turning  grey  and 
the  yeoman's  was  white  —  but  they  had  been  young 
together  in  the  days  of  Edge  Hill. 

"A  sultry  evening,  good  Ashby,"  said  the  Lord 
Constable,  with  his  kind,  sad  eyes  on  the  rugged  face 
that  crimsoned  with  joy  under  the  honour. 

"Aye,  my  lord  —  aye!"  muttered  the  yeoman  in 
gruff  tones.  (For  the  more  your  Englishman's  heart 
is  touched,  the  gruffer  rings  his  voice.)  "There's 
storm  brewing,  or  so  my  old  wounds  tell  me,  my 
lord." 

"Aye,  aye, " —  Rockhurst  took  up  the  sound,  as  he 
walked  on,  —  "the  storm  keeps  brewing,  and  our  old 
wounds  keep  aching." 

The  veteran  looked  after  him:  — 

"God  save  your  honour!" 


Ill 

THE  PHIAL   OF  ACQUETTA 

The  bunches  of  wax  candles  were  lit  in  the  parlour 
reserved  for  the  King's  intimate  gatherings.  Across 
the  outside  vision  of  lowering  sky  and  of  black 
water,  spangled  with  tossing  lights,  citron-yellow 
curtains  were  drawn. 

The  new  Venetian  chandelier  sparkled  with  delicate 
opalescent  tints  as  it  hung  over  the  supper  table: 
there  were  pink  roses  and  green  leaves,  amber 
flowers  and  blue,  most  wondrously  wrought  in  glass 
upon  its  twisted  branches.  The  cluster  of  goblets 
on  the  buffet,  shot  with  gold,  had  the  glow  of 
jewels.  Two  cups  stood  out  from  the  rest :  each  had 
a  fantastic  sea-horse  with  dragon  tail  for  its  base, 
supporting  on  its  grotesque  head  —  gaping-jawed 
with  red-curved  tongue  —  a  bowl  as  fine  and  as 
miraculously  coloured  as  a  bubble.  This  delicate, 
magic  array  of  colour  and  sheen  was  reflected  in  a 
great  mirror  which  filled  the  panel  of  the  wall  behind 
the  table. 

236 


The  King's  Cup  237 

This  last  of  the  Venice  gifts  was  of  severer  art  than 
the  rest;  and  where  it  did  not  hold  the  bubble 
splendour  repeated  in  its  depths,  it  shone  coldly, 
crystal  and  silver,  from  the  dark  wainscot. 

Charles  was  momentarily  lifted  out  of  his  heavy 
mood  by  amusement  and  curiosity. 

"Marry!"  he  said,  "if  these  be  our  cousin  of 
France's  leavings,  what  must  be  the  treasure  he  has 
kept !  Look  up,  my  lord,  this  mirror  —  'tis  a  curious 
and  pretty  piece,  and  reflects  the  light  a  hundred 
times  more  gaily  than  our  silver  and  bronze.  And 
the  drinking  gear  yonder  ...  I  The  Apocalypse 
itself  in  glass  !" 

He  strode  to  the  side-table  and  laid  a  finger  against 
the  fair  cheek  of  one  of  the  goblets  —  then  he 
glanced  up  and  caught  sight  of  his  own  dark  visage 
in  the  new  mirror.  The  gleam  of  satisfaction 
instantly  vanished  from  the  long  and  melancholy 
countenance. 

"And  gad,  my  lord,"  he  cried,  "if  you  think  I 
shall  be  left  as  much  as  this  little  tass,  within  a 
week  !  Oh  —  there'll  be  one  whose  face  will  look 
vastly  better  than  mine  in  yonder  mirror;  and 
another  whose  tiring-room  can  never  be  bright  again 
without  such  a  toy  as  yon !" 

He  turned  and  snapped  his  fingers  impatiently 


238  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

toward  the  soft-footed  servants  who  came  and  went 
between  the  door  and  the  sideboard  with  viands  and 
flasks. 

"Away  with  them,  away  with  them!  We'll  sit 
together  as  in  old  times  —  eh,  my  merry  Rockhurst  ? 
—  and  keep  but  Little  Satan  there  to  fill  a  cup." 

"I  oft  waited  on  you,  alone,  in  Holland  and  else- 
where, sire,"  responded  the  Lord  Constable's  deep 
voice. 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  the  King,  in  the  same  half- 
testy,  half  good-humoured  manner.  "  But  we  have  a 
demon  handy  to-night.  Tush,  man,"  proceeded  he, 
flinging  himself  into  the  leathern  chair  and  shaking 
out  the  Flemish  napkin,  "things  are  better  with  us, 
and  things  are  worse  with  us ;  let  us  drink  and  re- 
member — ■  and  drink  and  forget !  Ha,  my  lord,  we 
oft  had  neither  pasty  nor  capon  in  those  days  —  but 
I'll  say  that  for  thee,  Harry,  you  were  master  cellarer, 
and  you  never  let  me  lack  decent  wine  — " 

"My  liege,"  said  Rockhurst,  a  note  of  tenderness 
creeping  in  through  his  grave  tones,  "we  had  to 
pledge  a  great  cause,  and  the  wine  had  to  be  worthy 
of  the  cup !" 

"Truly,"  said  Charles.  "I  mind  me  of  a  certain 
yellow  Rhenish :  it  had  a  smack  —  where  you  got  it 
I  never  knew,  Harry,  but  it  had  a  smack !  —  The 


6 


The  Kings  Cup  239 

cause,  say  you?  Plague  on  your  hypocritical 
gravity  .  .  .  !  Tush,  man,  we  drank  to  black 
eyes  and  blue,  to  trim  ankles  and  laughing  tongues. 
Those  were  the  days  of  that  jade  Lucy  ...  ha, 
the  pair  of  eyes !  And  what  shall  we  pledge  to- 
night?" 

"Why,  then,  the  old  days,  your  Majesty." 

"Aye  — the  old  days,  good  days  .  .  .  and  all 
the  better,  being  past !  None  can  say  I  am  an  ambi- 
tious sovereign  —  eh,  my  solemn  Constable?  I  ask 
no  more  of  my  people  than  that  they  should  never 
send  me  on  my  travels  again.  .  .  .  'Tis  modest, 
patriarchal  —  a  home-keeping  sovereign  !  No  one 
can  accuse  me  of  not  spending  my  substance  among 
my  subjects  !" 

"Indeed  and  indeed,  no,  sire!"  said  Rockhurst, 
without  the  slightest  twinkle  in  his  straight  look. 
"As  for  spending,  my  liege,  your  Majesty  has  indeed 
a  royal  mastery  of  the  art." 

"Go  to!"  said  the  King.  "Wet  that  too  dry 
humour  of  thine  with  a  draught. — Nay,  Little  Satan, 
none  of  your  dark-liveried  claret  to-night;  we'll 
have  the  merry  yellow  wine  in  yonder  long  flagon. 
Away  with  this  dull  glass,  too.  —  Go,  play  with  the 
Apocalypse.  Those  dragon  beakers,  I'll  swear 
they'll  hold  half  the  flagon  apiece.  —  And  you  shall 


240  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

have  a  brimmer  and  drink  it  to  the  last  drop,  my 
Lord  Constable,  for  if  I'm  never  to  have  you  a  merry 
dog  again,  by  the  Lord,  I'll  have  you  a  drunk  one  !  — 
Vidame,  I  say  you  shall  see  my  reverend  Lord 
Constable  drunk,  and  have  something  to  laugh  at  to 
your  dying  day  —  for  'tis  then  the  solemnest  villain 
that  ever  staggered  on  human  legs." 

Enguerrand  had  been  a  presence  in  the  room  as 
noiseless  as  a  spirit.  Yet  every  word  that  passed 
between  the  two  men  —  the  sovereign  and  his  old 
comrade  —  had  added  intensity  to  his  murderous 
passion.  The  boy  loved  the  King.  Unhappy, 
abnormal  creature !  He  could  neither  love  nor 
hate  in  reason,  was  as  much  racked  with  jealousy  of 
his  master's  regard  as  a  lover  of  his  mistress's  favour. 
Every  look  of  old  familiar  friendship  that  Charles 
flung  at  Lord  Rockhurst,  every  easy  word,  pro- 
claiming a  sympathy  and  confidence  that  placed  them 
almost  on  brotherly  equality,  was  as  a  lash  on  the 
raw  wound  of  his  pride  —  a  spur  to  his  leaping 
hatred. 

At  the  King's  command  he  filled  one  of  the  dragon 
beakers  from  the  long-necked  bottle  with  a  singular 
precision,  though  his  hand  was  cold  as  ice,  and  his 
pulse  beat  to  suffocation  in  his  throat.  He  set  the 
wonderful  glass  —  more  wonderful  than  ever  now, 


The  King's  Cup  241 

with  the  golden  liquid  shining  within  its  flanks  — 
beside  the  King's  plate. 

"Odd's  fish  —  a  truly  royal  cup!  As  I  live,  the 
fair  half  of  the  bottle  !  .  .  .  Now,  boy,  the  other 
half  to  my  Lord  Constable." 

Over  by  the  sideboard,  under  the  cold  gleam  of 
the  mirror,  the  King's  page  paused  a  second,  and 
his  hand  went  a  last  time  to  his  breast.  Out,  little 
phial !  It  lay  in  the  hollow  of  his  palm,  no  larger 
than  a  lady's  thimble.  Break,  silken  thread ! 
His  moment  had  come :  the  lover  would  kiss  his 
dark  mistress  on  the  lips !  There  was  buzzing 
as  of  a  thousand  angry  bees  in  his  ears.  .  .  .  He 
never  noted  how  still  the  room  had  grown.  Now 
his  hand  hovered  over  the  rim  of  the  full  beaker  — 
a  strange  gesture,  as  of  the  priest  blessing  the 
cup  .  .  .  ! 

"Little  Satan  .  .  ."  said  the  King. 

Though  neither  loud  nor  sharp,  there  was  some- 
thing so  singular  in  Charles's  voice  that  Rockhurst 
started  from  his  wonted  abstraction. 

As  for  Enguerrand,  he  was  struck  full  into  his 
heart.  Involuntarily  he  straightened  his  hand  and 
the  empty  phial  fell  lightly  on  the  carpet.  He 
remained  a  moment  staring  into  nothingness;   then 


242  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

slowly  raised  his  eyes,  and  met  the  King's  eyes  in 
the  Venetian  mirror. 

Charles's  face  in  the  glass  .  .  .  his  glance  was 
terrible  !  Terrible,  too,  was  his  voice  as  he  spoke 
again,  though  it  was  lower  than  usual,  and  very 
distinct,  very  quiet :  — 

"Bring  me  that  cup,  Little  Satan." 

And  as  the  boy  mechanically  lifted  the  dragon 
goblet  and  turned  round,  holding  it  in  both  hands, 
for  it  was  brimming,  Charles  leaned  across  the  table 
and  passed  the  twin  cup,  his  own,  toward  Rockhurst, 
who  sat  in  wonder. 

"The  King  should  have  the  fuller  draught,"  he  said. 
"Why  do  you  wait  there,  Little  Satan?  — Bring 
me  that  cup,  that  I  may  pledge  my  noble  friend  the 
Lord  Constable." 

With  this  Enguerrand  heard  his  doom.  Had  the 
King  ordered  him  to  torture  and  death  he  could  not 
have  punished  him  so  mortally  as  by  this  quiet  order. 

A  second  more  he  stood,  with  fascinated  eyes, 
staring  at  his  beloved  master:  there  was  not  the 
faintest  answer  in  Charles's  relentless  gaze.  Then 
a  dreadful  smile  broke  on  the  young  face.  Without 
a  word  Enguerrand  de  Joncelles  lifted  the  beaker 
to  his  own  lips  and  drank. 

It  was  a  long  draught,  and  every  gulp  was  an  effort 


The  King's  Cup  243 

to  the  constricted  throat.  Yet  there  was  no  inter- 
ruption ;  and  for  a  seemingly  endless  span  of  silence 
and  tension  the  boy  stood  and  drew  the  death  into 
himself  —  his  eyes,  over  the  lovely,  fragile  rim, 
fixed  in  agony  upon  the  King. 

Charles  made  no  sign,  but  waited. 

When  the  last  drop  was  drained,  Enguerrand 
unclasped  his  fingers  on  either  side.  The  dragon 
glass  fell  and  was  shivered. 

Here  Rockhurst  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"Good  God,  your  Majesty!"  he  exclaimed. 
"What  is  this?" 

"Sit  down  again,"  said  the  King,  coldly.  "The 
Vidame  de  Joncelles  has  voluntarily  assumed  to- 
night a  new  service  about  our  person.  It  is  a  service 
which  hath  fallen  into  desuetude  at  the  Court  of 
England.  And  the  young  gentleman  has  proved  a 
greedy  taster  and  a  clumsy  one.  —  I  am  still  waiting 
for  my  wine." 

Rockhurst's  gaze  went  in  deep  uneasiness  from 
Charles's  face,  set  in  lines  of  unwonted  severity,  to 
the  livid  countenance  of  the  boy,  who  leaned  back 
against  the  sideboard,  scarce  able  to  support  himself. 

"Your  pardon,  sire,"  he  began,  pushing  back  his 
own  cup  —  "the  matter  can  scarce  remain  .  .  ." 

But  his  sovereign  again  interrupted  him,  this  time 


244  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

with  the  royal  percmptoriness  which  admits  of  no 
discussion :  — 

"There  is  but  one  thing  we  will  not  pardon,  and 
it  is  that  you  add  to  our  tedium  :  we  commanded  your 
presence  here  to-night  that  you  might  share  it,  not  to 
increase  it.  But,  meanwhile  we  are  waiting,  — 
Monsieur  de  Joncelles,"  —  and  for  the  first  time 
he  raised   his   voice   sharply, —  "we   are  waiting." 

The  boy  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  and 
dashed  back  the  curls  that  were  already  growing 
damp.  That  the  King  should  have  no  pity  on  him, 
and  yet  spare  him  thus  —  it  was  befitting  one  whom 
he  had  worshipped  from  the  very  first  for  his  true 
royalty.  A  kind  of  fierce  pride  awoke  in  him  and 
spurred  him  to  meet  his  death  in  a  manner  worthy 
of  such  clement  cruelty.  Though  the  lights  were 
beginning  to  swim  before  his  eyes  and  he  rather 
groped  than  saw,  he  contrived  to  open  a  second 
flask  and  fill  another  of  the  Venetian  beakers. 

Then  —  for  French  Joan  had  been  faithful,  and 
swift  was  the  working  of  her  gift  —  he  had  to  make 
a  heroic  effort  to  bring  the  glass  to  the  King.  But 
the  very  fierceness  of  the  effort,  final  flare  of  an 
indomitable  spirit,  carried  the  failing  body  through. 

Enguerrand  came  to  the  table  with  measured 
step,  although  it  seemed  to  him  he  trod  illimitable 


The  King's  Cup  245 

air;  went  down  slowly  on  one  knee  and  uplifted 
his  rigid  hands,  clasping  the  substance  he  no  longer 
felt.  The  ultimate  action  of  his  life  was  the  yielding 
of  the  cup  into  the  King's  hand. 

As  the  King  took  and  drank,  the  boy  fell. 

"Why,  the  lad  has  swooned  .  .  .  !  some  aqua 
vita?!"  exclaimed  Rockhurst. 

But  Charles  flung  out  his  hand  with  his  rare  ges- 
ture of  command :  — 

"Nay,  my  lord.  —  He  is  dead,  or  dying.  Little 
Satans  do  not  do  their  work  by  halves.  He  is  dead 
or  soon  will  be.  —  Odd's  fish!"  added  the  King, 
after  a  moment's  frowning  meditation,  "when  you 
lured  that  linnet,  his  sister,  to  sing  for  you  in  the 
Tower,  Harry,  you  little  thought  her  song  was  to 
have  such  an  echo  !" 

Rockhurst  stared  for  a  moment  horror-stricken  — 
his  glance  roamed  from  the  broken  beaker  to  the 
cups  on  the  table  and  thence  to  Enguerrand's  con- 
vulsed face.  A  glimmering  of  the  truth  began  to 
dawn  upon  him;  the  mystery  was  dissolving  before 
a  tragic  and  dreadful  light.  Even  in  the  midst  of 
the  King's  words  he  dropped  on  one  knee  to  raise 
the  prone  figure.  The  livid  head  fell  limply  back 
over  his  arm.  The  King  cast  one  look  down  and 
averted  his  eyes. 


246  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Away  with  him!"  he  cried,  in  an  explosion 
of  nervous  irritability.  "Away  with  him!  Call 
whomsoever  you  want  to  carry  him,  do  what  you 
list,  get  what  physician  you  wish, —  the  lad's  dead, 
and  'tis  the  end  of  it !  You  understand,  I'll  not  hear 
another  word  about  the  matter.  .  .  .  Gadzooks ! 
what  a  finish  to  a  tedious  day!  Away  with  him, 
I  command  you,  my  Lord  Rockhurst !" 

Rockhurst,  who  had  half  risen  at  the  King's  sharp 
tones,  now  bent  once  more  down  and  gathered  the 
inert  form  into  his  arms. 

"Will  your  Majesty,  then,  open  the  door  for  me?" 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  King  sprang  up  from  his  chair,  dashing  his 
napkin  on  one  side,  and  flung  open  the  door  with  an 
angry  hand. 

The  slam  of  its  closing  echoed  down  the  great 
corridors.  So  would  Charles  ever  shut  the  unpleas- 
ant episode  out  from  his  life.  Yet  he  had  not  quite 
succeeded  :  as  he  went  moodily  back  to  the  table,  his 
foot  struck  against  the  empty  little  phial.  With 
precaution,  placing  the  napkin  between  it  and  his 
palm,  he  held  it  to  the  light.  It  was  wrought  of 
Italian  glass,  with  twisted  lines  of  blue  and  red,  not 
much  larger  than  a  filbert  nut. 

A    vision    swam    before    his    eyes:     Rockhurst's 


The  King's  Cup  247 

face,  upturned  as  he  had  but  just  now  seen  that  of 
his  French  page;  and,  like  it,  livid  in  the  hues  of 
death. 

"Little  Satan!  .  .  ."he  said  aloud. 

It  was  the  last  time  that  the  words  were  ever  to 
cross  his  lips.  He  cast  the  phial  out  through  the 
open  window  and  heard  the  faint  splintering  crash 
echo  from  the  flags  below. 

Rockhurst  had  taken  but  a  few  steps  down  the 
passage,  when  some  inexplicable  impression  bade 
him  pause  and  glance  down  at  his  sad  burden. 

The  light  from  one  of  the  wall  sconces  fell  full  on 
the  boy's  face :  a  subtle  change,  that  was  scarcely  so 
much  a  quiver  as  a  composing  of  all  the  features, 
was  passing  over  it,  driving  away  the  terrible  pinched 
look  of  agony  and  restoring  something  of  its  youthful 
beauty.  Then  Enguerrand  opened  his  eyes  and 
stared  up  into  the  Lord  Constable's  countenance. 
Rockhurst  had  never  before  met  those  eyes  but  that 
he  had  found  hatred  in  them.  At  this  supreme 
moment  there  was  no  hatred,  only  a  kind  of  desolate 
wonder.  Then,  even  as  their  gaze  met,  the  soul 
that  seemed  to  seek  his  was  gone ;  the  eyes  wondered 
no  more. 

Rockhurst  stood  still,  an  intolerable  pain  at  his 


248  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

heart.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  held  his  own  son's 
dead  body  on  his  breast.  The  ring  of  the  yeoman's 
halbert,  the  tramp  of  his  heavy  foot,  roused  him  from 
the  revery.     He  strode  forward  a  few  steps  more. 

"Ho,  Ashby,"  he  called,  "I  have  need  of 
thee!" 

"Nay,  in  God's  mercy,"  cried  the  old  man, 
drawing  near,  "that  is  never  the  French  lad  !" 

He  laid  the  halbert  against  the  wall,  and  hastened 
to  relieve  his  captain  from  the  burden.  Then,  as 
he  felt  one  of  the  small  hands,  cold  and  limp :  — • 

"Dead,  and  dead  in  very  surety!  Why,  'tis  not 
an  hour  since  he  passed  me,  singing  like  a  swallow 
on  the  wing,  and  hopping  for  all  like  a  squirrel." 

Very  serious  was  the  face  of  the  King's  physician, 
and  pale  his  cheek,  as  he  lifted  himself  suddenly 
from  the  examination  of  the  corpse  that  had  been 
laid  on  my  Lord  Constable's  bed,  in  the  room  by  the 
gateway. 

He  turned  hastily  and,  forgetting  all  decorum, 
pushed  not  only  the  yeoman,  who  was  awaiting  his 
orders,  but  my  lord  himself,  from  the  chamber. 

"We  can  do  nothing  —  the  boy  is  dead  !" 

Then  he  leaned  over  and  breathed  rather  than 
spoke  into  Rockhurst's  ear  the  single  word, "  Plague." 


The  King's  Cup  249 

Adding  aloud,  the  while  fumbling  in  his  pocket  for 
his  pomander  box  :  — 

"One  of  those  monstrous,  sudden  cases  we  are 
told  of  —  but  which  I  confess  I  have  never  seen ! 
Merciful  heavens  ...  in  Whitehall !  Your  lord- 
ship must  submit  instantly  to  fumigation.  Aye, 
and  yonder  yeoman,  too,  who  carried  the  body." 
This  between  prolonged  sniffs  at  the  pierced  lid  of 
his  pomander  box.  "Pray,  my  lord,  inhale  of  this, 
deep  —  and  you,  too,  fellow,  after  his  lordship ! 
And  the  burial  must  be  early  in  the  morn  —  poor 
lad  !  And,  my  lord,  I  beseech  let  it  be  in  secret. 
Oh,  we  must  hold  our  tongues  about  this,  my  Lord 
Constable  !  The  sickness  in  Whitehall,  and  in  his 
Majesty's  very  apartment !  .  .  .  Not  a  word  to  his 
Majesty !  The  lad  has  died  of  a  fit  —  a  rush  to  the 
head.  Tut,  tut  —  the  truth  must  be  kept  secret 
indeed  !" 

Rockhurst  had  listened  with  immovable  counte- 
nance. 

"Aye,"  he  said  gravely,  "it  shall  be  kept  secret." 

And,  after  inhaling  the  pomander  box  with  due 
solemnity,  he  handed  it  to  yeoman  Ashby.  But 
as  soon  as  the  physician,  taking  a  hurried  conge, 
had  left  the  anteroom,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  old 
soldier's  shoulder:  — 


250  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Never  fear,  man,  neither  you  nor  I  shall  catch 
the  sickness  whereof  this  poor  youth  died,  you  can 
take  your  captain's  word  for  warrant.  Neverthe- 
less, I  charge  thee,  speak  no  word,  but,  as  the  physi- 
cian hath  it  —  a  rush  to  the  head  !" 

Yet  rumour  ran  abroad,  as  rumour  will.  And 
Sir  Paul  Farrant,  hearing  of  his  whilom  friend's 
tragic  death,  had  never  a  doubt  that  it  was  in  those 
haunts  of  Alsatia  that  he  had  first  met  the  dis- 
temper — ■  and  himself  started  off  to  the  pure  airs 
of  Farrant  Chace,  where  he  spent  a  dismal  month 
watching  for  symptoms. 

Over  the  grave,  in  Tothill  Fields,  where  the 
passionate,  revengeful  heart  lay  now  in  quietude, 
a  stone  was  erected  by  the  Lord  Constable's  order, 
which  set  forth  the  Vidame  de  Joncelle's  names  and 
titles,  and  recorded  he  had  died  in  the  flower  of  his 
age,  honoured  by  the  King's  regard. 


LADY  CHILLINGBURGH'S  LAST 
CARD-PARTY 


LADYCHILLINGBURGH'S  LAST 
CARD-PARTY 


LINCOLN'S    INN    FIELDS 

Lionel  Ratcliffe  closed  behind  him  the  gate  of 
the  house  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  where  he  had  his 
lodging.  He  crossed  the  road,  then  paused  to  survey 
the  desolate  scene. 

The  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  but  sullen  fires  of 
sunset  were  still  burning  low  under  a  leaden,  cloudy 
sky.  Beneath  his  feet  the  grass  was  parched,  the 
ground  everywhere  leprous  grey.  Though  it  was  only 
early  July,  the  foliage  of  the  trees  hung  limp  and 
sick-hued ;  there  was  not  a  flicker  of  life  among  the 
branches  —  indeed,  hardly  a  stir  anywhere  in  the  lan- 
guid atmosphere.  Sky  seemed  to  brood  over  earth, 
earth  to  lie  paralysed,  awaiting  some  moment  of  catas- 
trophe, and  heavy  vapours  to  be  fusing  them  together. 
The  heat  was  a  palpable  presence.  An  anguished 
expectation  caught  the  throat  as  with  an  actual  pres- 
sure.    The  plague  held  all  London  in  its  grip. 

253 


254  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Men  can  walk  with  fortitude  under  the  wings  of  the 
Angel  of  Destruction,  when  the  death  he  brings  is  a 
clean  one,  honourable,  seemly;  but  this  horrible 
Demon  of  Corruption  that  now  spread  its  shadow 
over  the  world  made  its  victims  loathsome  in  each 
other's  eyes  and  infected  them  with  coward  self- 
ishness and  panic  fears. 

The  Court  had  gone  at  last,  though  Charles  was  no 
poltroon.  Half  the  population  was  in  flight  along 
country  roads ;  blind  terror  was  upon  most  of  those 
whom  circumstances  retained  within  the  doomed 
circle.  Among  the  well-to-do  only  three  classes 
still  lingered  in  the  town:  those  whom  a  sense  of 
duty  kept  at  their  post;  those  again  who,  with  a 
strange  but  not  unknown  faculty  of  self-deception, 
chose  to  ignore  the  visitation  rather  than  to  face  the 
appalling  presence;  and  lastly,  those  few  strong 
natures  who,  for  purposes  of  their  own,  found  it 
worth  while  to  set  danger  at  defiance. 

To  these  last  belonged  Lionel  Ratcliffe.  Fully 
aware  of  the  peril,  he  challenged  it  deliberately. 
He  knew  that  those  yellow  vapours  were  the  very 
breath  of  the  pestilence ;  that  the  smell  everywhere 
meeting  his  nostrils  was  that  of  death ;  that  among 
yonder  prostrate  figures  reclining  beneath  the  trees 
many  were  doubtless  stricken,  dying,  or  dead.     He 


Lady  Chillingburgh' 's  Last  Card-Party      255 

kept  on,  nevertheless,  calm  if  wary,  at  a  masterful 
gait,  across  the  fields. 

In  his  hand  he  swung  a  loaded  cane  of  such  pro- 
portions as  almost  to  rival  a  watchman's  staff  — 
one  which  could  keep  at  a  distance  or  at  one  stroke 
lay  low  the  sturdiest  onslaught.  For  it  was  well 
known  that  many  of  the  pest-stricken  in  their  delirium 
rushed  into  the  street  to  die;  that  the  passer-by 
might  at  any  moment  be  confronted  by  some  mis- 
erable wretch  who,  seized  with  madness,  would  rise 
and  clasp  him  in  an  embrace  of  hideous  contagion. 

As  for  the  mumpers  and  rufflers,  who  were  wont 
to  emerge  at  the  darkening  hours  in  the  Fields  — 
like  night-moths,  no  one  knew  where  from  —  one 
glance  of  this  gentleman's  eye,  not  to  speak  of  the 
knowing  gesture  of  the  staff  hand,  would  have 
sufficed  to  bid  even  the  stoutest  of  them  pause  and 
be  wiser  than  to  meddle. 

And  so  Lionel  Ratcliffe  passed  on,  without  undue 
haste,  leaving  the  closed  theatre  on  his  left,  making 
westward  toward  Arch  Row.  And  presently,  as 
he  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  he  sighted 
the  mansion  that  was  his  goal,  Chillingburgh  House, 
with  its  sharp  roof,  its  coping  balustrade  and  urns 
rising  in  relief,  black  against  the  lurid  orange  of  the 
sky. 


256  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  "* 

As  he  approached  the  gateway  a  sedan  chair, 
escorted  by  a  couple  of  armed  footmen,  was  just 
depositing  a  lady  voluminously  wrapped  in  a  silk 
cloak  before  the  double  flight  of  steps.  He  halted 
for  a  second  to  watch  her  begin  the  ascent  on  the 
right.  She  went  slowly,  as  one  fatigued  ;  he  swiftly 
entered  the  flagged  courtyard,  took  the  opposite  side 
of  the  stairs,  and  reached  the  landing  just  before 
her. 

"  Madame  de  Mantes !  .  .  .  your  servant  — ! 
Punctual  to  the  moment!"  cried  he,  bowed  and 
clapped  the  feathered  hat  against  his  breast. 

She  halted  on  the  last  step  and  raised  her  handsome 
head  slowly  toward  him,  ignoring  his  hand.  The 
light  was  growing  dim,  and  the  rosy  folds  of  her  hood 
looked  grey;  but  even  under  its  shadows  and  in 
spite  of  the  rouge  on  her  cheek  he  had  an  uncom- 
fortable impression  of  her  pallor. 

"Oui"  she  said  tonelessly,  "me  void."  Then, 
with  sudden  petulance,  "  Ouf !  but  one  suffocates 
in  this  air !" 

She  caught  at  the  strings  of  her  cloak  and  tore  them 
apart ;  the  light  silken  thing  slipped  from  her  shoul- 
ders, but  she  hurried  into  the  house  as  one  unseeing. 
Ratchffe  picked  up  the  garment  alertly,  and  followed, 
just  in  time  to  offer  his  hand  again  at  the  foot  of  the 


Lady  Chillingburgli *s  Last  Card- Party      257 

great  staircase.  The  touch  of  her  fingers  struck 
chill.  His  first  misgivings  deepened  ;  but  he  quickly 
dismissed  the  rising  thoughts.  Bah  !  a  woman  in 
love  (what  was  there  about  this  Rockhurst,  curse 
him !  that  all  the  fair  should  thus  run  mad  upon 
him  ?)  —  a  woman  hopelessly  in  love,  and  a  French- 
woman at  that !  There  would  sure  be  scenes  with 
the  faithless  lover,  and  she  was  even  now  rehearsing 
them  in  her  agitated  imagination.  Well  might  her 
hands  be  cold. 

"Are  you  ill  at  ease?"  he  whispered,  with  a  per- 
functory show  of  solicitude  as  they  passed  a  couple  of 
anxious-looking  servants  and  drew  closer  together  on 
the  stairs. 

"Mon  Dieu!  but  not  at  all!"  she  mocked  him 
irritably.  "Neither  ill  in  my  ease,  nor  my  heart, 
nor  —  oh,  tranquillise  yourself  —  nor  in  my  head  ! 
Besides,  who  could  be  but  well  and  happy  in  this 
merry  London  of  yours?" 

They  had  reached  the  gallery.  She  snapped  her 
hand  from  his  and  dropped  him  a  courtesy.  He 
wondered  to  have  thought  her  pale ;  now  she  seemed 
to  him  unwontedly  flushed.  Her  heavy  eyes  shot  fire. 
Appraising  her  critically,  he  approved.  There  were 
jewels  at  her  ears  and  throat ;  her  gown  had  the  im- 
press of  French  taste,  and  became  her  every  beauty. 


258  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

The  grey-haired  butler  who  flung  open  the  doors 
of  the  drawing-room  at  her  approach  looked  after  the 
swaying,  shimmering  figure  with  melancholy  ap- 
proval. 

"  'Tis  almost  like  old  times,  Master  Lionel," 
he  whispered,  as  Ratcliffe  passed  in,  "to  see  a  Court 
lady  about  the  place  again." 

"Aye,  from  Court  she  is,"  said  Lady  Chilling- 
burgh's  grandson,  halting  on  the  threshold  to  let  his 
gaze  roam  thankfully  over  the  great  white-and-gold 
room,  which  had  a  sense  of  coolness  and  repose  about 
it,  even  on  such  a  night.  "  But  she  had  her  reasons 
for  not  hasting  off  with  the  rest  of  them  this  morning." 

"Eh  —  but  they  must  be  weighty  reasons!" 
murmured  the  old  servant,  with  a  sigh. 

"No  doubt  the  lady  thinks  them  so,"  said  Lionel 
Ratcliffe,  with  his  detached  laugh.  —  "We  are  full 
early  here,  'twould  seem,"  he  added  in  louder 
tones,  advancing  toward  the  card-table  in  the  win- 
dow before  which  the  Frenchwoman  had  already 
taken  seat. 

But  she  disdained  to  cast  toward  him  even  the 
flutter  of  an  eyelid.  Her  fingers  were  moving 
restlessly  among  the  cards  and  dice. 

"Zero  .  .  .  zero!  Hein?  Non-zero.  Ah  .  .  . 
mal-chancel" 


Lady  Chillingburgh's  Last  Card- Party      259 

The  man  stood  over  her  a  second  or  two  in  silence. 
Then  sat  down  in  his  turn  and  faced  her.  His 
voice  rang  out  with  a  kind  of  empty  cheeriness:  — 

"What!  to  the  dice  already? — Nay,"  here  he 
leaned  across  the  narrow  space  and  whispered, 
"Remember,  it  was  to  play  another  game  that  I 
brought  you  here." 

She  turned  petulantly  from  him;  then  her  eye 
became  fixed,  staring  out  through  the  unshuttered 
window. 

"What  a  strange  red  moon  is  rising!"  she  cried. 
"Would  to  God,  Monsieur  Ratcliffe,  you  had  never 
come  to  me  this  morning,  tempting,  tempting.  .  .  . 
My  boxes  were  packed :  I  should  be  now  far  from 
this  pit  of  pestil  — " 

"Hush!  hush!"  he  warned,  finger  on  lip. 
"  Not  here  !  Do  not  forget  my  instructions."  Then, 
in  his  low,  mock-gallant  accents:  "How  now? 
Is  the  game,  then,  no  longer  worth  the  hazard?" 

She  caught  up  the  dice-box  again,  feverishly :  — 

"Yes  —  yes.     But  I  have  no  luck  to-night !" 

She  muttered  and  cast.     "Naught  again!" 

"Expect  you  luck  at  the  game  of  chance,"  quoth 
he,  catching  the  dice-box  from  her  hand,  "when  you 
are  so  lucky  at  the  game  of  love  ?  " 

"I?     I,  lucky ?; 


i  >) 


260  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Yes,"  proceeded  he;  "and  have  you  not  had 
Cupid's  best  cards  in  your  hand,  since  the  very 
hour  of  your  landing  with  Madame  de  France? 
First  the  King  —  King  of  Trumps  himself,  and  eke 
the  Queen.  —  Gad,  she'd  have  loved  you,  were  it 
but  to  spite  the  Castlcmaine.  —  Then  — " 

"Tush!"  she  interrupted  angrily.  "Cards?  — 
'Tis  not  all  to  hold  the  cards  —  one  must  play  them. 
I  held  them  all,  in  truth  — "she  put  her  hand  to  her 
throat  with  a  little  choking  sob.     "  But  — " 

"You  threw  them  all  down  !"  he  laughed. 

"Ah,  del  I  —  When  the  heart  begins  to  take  a  part 
in  this  game  of  love,  then  all  goes  astray." 

"Aye,"  repeated  the  man,  steadily,  his  hard  eyes 
upon  her,  "you  threw  your  cards  away  —  and  all 
for  love  of  this  Rockhurst,  the  greatest  knave  in  the 
pack." 

She  turned  with  sudden  anger:  — 

"Knave,  sir?  Sho !  .  .  .  King  of  you  all!" 
Then,  with  equally  sudden  change  of  mood,  "Oh, 
he  is  a  villain  !"  she  moaned,  and  her  lip  trembled 
upon  tears. 

"And  so  you  have  not  seen  him,"  said  he,  altering 
his  tone  to  one  of  elaborate  sympathy,  "since  he 
returned  to  town,  escorting  to  his  house  my  fair 
cousin,  Diana  Harcourt?     What  —  not  once,  after 


Lady  Cliillingburgh's  Last  Card-Party      261 

all  you  have  given  up  for  him  ?  —  Faith,  'tis  ungal- 
lant  of  him!" 

Her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  chin  sunk  in  her 
hands,  she  was  now  staring  fiercely  into  his  eyes. 

"Your  promise,  sir,  that  I  meet  him  here  to- 
night? ..." 

"Nay,  I  can  only  tell  you,  my  fair  Jeanne,  that 
he  journeys  hither  from  the  Tower  or  Whitehall 
twice  a  day  —  when  'tis  not  thrice." 

uMon  Dieu!  ..."  she  breathed  between  her 
clenched  teeth. 

Satisfied  with  the  temper  he  had  aroused  in  her, 
the  man  withdrew  his  eyes,  turned  sideways  on  his 
chair,  and  crossed  his  legs. 

"I  fear  you've  been  too  cool  with  him,"  he 
remarked  airily.  "  Our  '  merry  Rockhurst,'  as 
his  Majesty  calls  him,  is  used  to  a  vast  deal  of 
warmth." 

"I  —  too  cool !"  She  laughed  hysterically.  "  Oh, 
yes,  it  was  that,  of  course,  with  this  heart  and  brain 
of  mine  on  fire  !" 

"Then  I  fear,"  said  Ratcliffe,  on  the  edge 
of  a  yawn,  "you've  been  too  hot.  The  Lord 
Constable  of  his  Majesty's  Tower  is  a  man  of 
niceties." 

"Monsieur  Ratcliffe,"  cried  Jeanne  de  Mantes, 


262  "  My  Merry  Rockhnrst  " 

beating  the  table  with  her  palm  and  darting  her 
head  toward  him  like  a  pretty  serpent,  "you  are 
the  Devil!" 

"And  your  very  good  friend,  madam."  He 
smiled  with  a  charming  bow.  "  Come,  come ! 
Smooth  that  fair  brow.  Do  you  doubt  but  you  can 
hold  your  own  against  a  mere  country  widow?" 

She  fixed  him  with  suspicious  eyes. 

"Aye,  and  now  it  comes  to  me,"  she  cried  resent- 
fully. "What  is  your  motive  in  all  this,  Monsieur 
Ratcliffe  ?     Not  simply  sympathy  for  me  ? " 

"Come,  come!  Be  calm."  There  was  authority 
under  his  blandness.  "Be  calm,"  he  repeated, 
"and  let  me  whisper  in  your  ear.  —  I  will  even 
trust  you  with  my  innermost  thought.  Diana  Har- 
court  shall  not  be  for  my  Lord  Rockhurst,  but  for 
your  humble  servant." 

"Aye,"  she  commented,  a  twist  of  scorn  upon  her 
lips;  "the  lady,  I  was  told,  is  passing  rich." 

"Even  so,"  returned  he,  unmoved.  "'Twould 
indeed  be  impossible  to  conceal  aught  from  your 
perspicacity  !  —  Now  Mistress  Harcourt,  by  an  odd 
trick  of  fate,  has  become  affianced  to  Harry  Rock- 
hurst, the  virtuous,  innocent  country  son  of  this 
most  reprobate  nobleman.  The  which,  however, 
would  be  but  a  small  matter  (for  she  loves  not  the 


Lady  Chillingburgh's  Last  Card-Party      263 

green  lad,  mark  you,  nor  ever  will),  were  it  not  the 
spur  to  other  feelings." 

"I  fail  to  follow  you,  sir,"  she  said  wearily. 

"  Nay,  a  moment's  patience,  pretty  huntress,  then 
you  will  come  full  on  the  scent.  My  Lord  Rock- 
hurst  has  had  the  singular  maggot  of  playing  a  game 
of  parental  virtue  with  his  heir.  —  But  you  are  not 
listening." 

She  was  pressing  her  temples  with  the  tip  of  her 
fingers,  as  one  who  fights  a  stabbing  pain.  At  his 
words,  she  looked  up  again  and  nodded;  and  he 
went  on:  — 

"He  has  pledged  himself  to  guard  the  goddess 
for  his  lad  in  the  maze  of  the  town.  Mistress 
Diana  has  seen  naught  of  my  Lord  Constable  but 
the  high-souled  knight,  the  King  Arthur  of  romance, 
and  so  he  would  fain  remain  in  her  eyes  even  as  in 
those  of  his  son;  and  thus  he,  whom  the  town 
has  dubbed  Rakehell  Rockhurst,  caught  in  his  own 
springe,  must  go  on  playing  the  pattern  of  chivalry, 
the  virtuous  gentleman,  the  devoted  father  —  play 
his  part  out,  in  fact,  or  else  be  dubbed  now  prince  of 
hypocrites  !  Aye,  and  the  cream  of  the  jest  is  that 
they  have  fallen  both  so  mad  in  love  with  each 
other,  aha !  that  each  can  scarce  breathe  in  the 
other's  presence  for  the  weight  of  the  secret !" 


264  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

He  laughed,  but  she  brooded  darkly,  nibbling 
at  her  little  finger. 

"And  so,"  she  said  after  a  pause,  "you  count  upon 
me  to  lure  back  my  lord  ?" 

"Aye,"  retorted  he,  with  a  great  show  of  ease. 
"  That  —  or  else  to  pluck  the  mask  of  grave  virtue 
from  his  face  ...  in  Mistress  Harcourt's  presence. 
Was  it  not  agreed?  Either  course,  I  take  it,  will 
serve  your  purpose  as  well  as  mine.  Why  —  I 
deemed  you  subtler,  madam!  Upon  my  Lord 
Constable's  discomfiture;  upon  the  opening  of 
my  fair  prude's  eyes,  strikes  my  hour,  I  say.  And, 
zounds,  I  take  it !  —  Strikes  your  moment,  too, 
so  you  know  how  to  clutch  it!  Do  you  not  see 
that?" 

She  made  no  answer.  A  meaningless  laugh  was 
on  her  lips ;  it  died  in  a  sigh.  A  strange  feeling  as 
of  soaring  and  undulation  had  come  upon  her,  and  a 
splitting  of  her  thoughts  as  though  she  were  in  two 
places  at  once.  Her  mind  was  wandering  oddly, 
beyond  her  control,  to  the  cool  meadows  of  her  child- 
hood's home,  to  the  days  when  she  plucked  daisies 
with  her  baby  brother  in  the  dew-wet  grass.  Lionel 
Ratcliffe  was  still  speaking;  she  caught  a  word 
here  and  there.  One  phrase  at  last  fixed  her  at- 
tention. 


Lady  Chillingburgh's  Last  Card-Party      265 

"'Twill  go  hard,"  he  was  saying,  "if  Lionel 
Ratcliffe  comes  not  to  his  own  to-night !" 

"And  Jeanne  de  Mantes  to  hers  !"  she  cried  then, 
in  a  kind  of  high-strained  voice,  rousing  herself. 
And,  falling  back  into  her  abstraction:  "What  a 
wicked  mist  there  rises  from  the  garden,"  she  went 
on,  complaining.  "Aye,  would  I  were  far  from 
here  ! " 

"And  let  pious  Mistress  Harcourt  convert  my 
Lord  Constable?" 

"A  plague  on  you!"  she  shrieked  in  a  sudden 
frenzy. 

"Hush,  hush!     That  word  —  have  you  forgot?" 

A  shadow  fell  on  them  as  they  leaned  together. 
She  looked  up  in  terror.  It  was  only  the  old  butler, 
with  a  whispered  message  from  Lady  Chillingburgh 
to  her  grandson. 

Lionel  frowned  :  the  interruption  was  unwelcome. 
He  glanced  at  the  clock,  it  was  the  hour  of  the  re- 
ception ;  the  guests  would  presently  arrive,  and  he 
mistrusted  the  Frenchwoman's  tact,  above  all  to- 
night, in  this  unwonted  vapourish  mood.  He  rose 
with  ill  humour. 

"Some  whimsy  of  my  grandam  about  the  tables, 
no  doubt,"  he  muttered,  as  he  sauntered  from  the 
room,  pausing  at  the  door  to  cast  a  last  look  of  warn- 


266  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

ing.  And,  truly,  —  for  Fate  plays  such  tricks  upon 
those  who  would  guide  her,  —  scarce  had  his  foot- 
steps died  away,  when  Lord  Rockhurst  himself 
entered  unannounced  upon  the  solitary  guest,  as 
enters  the  familiar  of  the  house. 


II 

love's  reproach 

He  reached  the  middle  of  the  room  before  he 
caught  sight  of  her.  An  angry  frown  suddenly 
overcast  features  which,  in  repose,  were  at  once 
singularly  dignified  and  melancholy. 

"How  now?"  he  said  harshly.  "How  come  you 
here?" 

Whatever  illusion  Jeanne  de  Mantes  might  have 
cherished  as  to  her  power  over  the  man  she  loved, 
that  frown,  the  cutting  tones,  all  too  quickly  dis- 
pelled it.  She  felt  as  one  who,  stretching  her  cheek 
for  a  kiss,  receives  a  blow.  Ingrate !  And  she 
who,  this  day,  was  braving  death  to  see  him  once 
more  !  Quick  upon  the  smart  of  pain,  her  fury  rose. 
Squaring  her  elbows,  she  looked  at  him  insolently. 

"Why,  in  my  sedan  chair,  milord." 

"Who  brought  you,  then?" 

But  she  had  not  the  strength  for  the  fight.  What 
had  come  to  Jeanne  de  Mantes  ?  She  found  herself 
faltering:  — 

267 


268  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Nay,  say  what  brought  mc,  Rockhurst,  and  I 
will  tell  you.  It  was  to  see  you."  Her  voice  deep- 
ened, the  tears  she  would  not  shed  wept  in  it.  "I 
was  packing,  if  you  would  know,  for  country  and 
safety,  even  this  morning.  And  when  Mr.  Ratcliffe 
told  me—" 

"Ha!"  he  interrupted,  speaking  half  to  himself, 
"I  might  have  known  who  had  baited  this  trap." 

She  went  on  with  rising  plaint :  — 

"Oh !  what  have  I  done  to  thee,  my  friend  — ?" 

"This  is  no  place  for  you,  madam,"  he  said, 
coming  close  to  her  and  speaking  very  low.  "A 
house  you  have  no  right  to  enter." 

The  colour  flamed  up  again  to  her  face. 

"Nay,  if  you  are  here,  milord,"  she  retorted, 
"why  not  I,  then?" 

He  stood  a  few  seconds,  his  dark  eye  upon  her, 
deeply  thinking;  then,  as  though  upon  a  sudden, 
wilful  mood,  a  complete  change  came  over  him.  The 
stateliness,  the  air  of  command,  the  something  un- 
approachable as  of  one  set  apart,  gave  place  to 
mockery,  to  languor.  He  let  himself  sink  upon  the 
chair  that  Ratcliffe  had  vacated ;  and,  running  his 
fingers  through  the  black  curls  that  lay  on  his  shoul- 
ders, scrutinised  her  again  insolently  through  half- 
closed  lids. 


Lady  Chillingbur git's  Last  Card- Party      269 

"Lionel  Ratcliffe,"  quoth  he  then,  "is  a  gentle- 
man of  birth  and  parts.     And  if  he  hath  not  much 
of  this  world's  goods,  he  hath  wits,  which  is  nigh  as- 
good.     Mightest  do  worse,  Jinny  !" 

"And  is  it  for  this,"  cried  she,  laughing  loudly, 
"that  I  gave  up  a  king?"  But  in  the  midst  of  her 
laughter  tears  welled  and  ran  down  her  cheeks. 

"By  the  Lord  Harry!"  he  said,  wilfully  hard, 
"but  this  becomes  a  wearisome  refrain  of  thine! 
What  now,  Old  Rowley  is  forgiving.  Finish  that 
packing  of  thine,  and  hie  thee  to  Salisbury.  You 
might  still—" 

She  caught  her  kerchief  from  her  bosom  and  set 
her  teeth  in  it. 

"  Might  I,  indeed,  my  lord  ?  Oh,  you  are  gallant !" 
Then  the  tears  came  on  that  hysteric  outburst: 
"You  will  break  my  heart !" 

He  glanced  anxiously  toward  the  door 

"Tush!  —  Hearts?"  he  cried  impatiently.  "We 
are  set  with  five  senses  in  this  world,  and  'tis  but 
common  wisdom  to  take  note  of  them.  But  hearts  ? 
What  have  you  and  I  to  do  with  hearts?" 

"And,  indeed,"  she  sobbed — "and,  indeed,  I 
never  knew  I  had  one,  till  you  had  taken  it  from  me  !" 

"  Dry  your  eyes,  Jinny,"  said  he  then,  not  unkindly. 
"When  will  ye  women  learn  it?  —  tears  are  daggers 


270  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

with  which  ye  slay  your  charms.  .  .  .  Enough ! 
I  for  one  never  could  abide  a  salt  cheek." 

She  thrust  back  the  sob  rising  in  her  throat,  and 
strove  to  smile  upon  him. 

"Time  was  you  thought  me  handsome,"  she 
murmured   with   catching   breath. 

"I  think  thee  handsome  still,"  he  answered; 
stretched  out  a  languid  ringer  and  touched  her  chin. 
Then  a  bitter  laugh  shook  him.  "A  morsel  fit  for  a 
king,  as  I  said  !" 

With  her  snakelike  movement  she  rose,  and  stood 
a  second,  glaring  down  at  him.  Then  to  her  ears 
came  a  rustle  along  the  oaken  boards  of  the  passage. 
Her  rival !  And  she,  la  belle  Jeanne  de  Mantes, 
tear-stained,  a  hideous  thing  to  be  mocked  at !  Like 
a  hunted  thing,  she  turned  and  dashed  through 
the  open  window  out  upon  the  terrace  that  over- 
looked the  gloom  of  the  garden. 

No  fresh  air  there  to  cool  her  fevered  temples, 
to  revive  that  heart  so  strangely  labouring.  But 
stronger  than  all  physical  discomfort  was  the  galling 
interest  of  her  jealousy.  She  returned  close  to  the 
window  by  which  she  had  fled.  .  .  .  The  mischief 
of  it  was  that,  with  this  hammering  of  her  pulses, 
she  could  scarce  catch  a  word  of  what  passed  within 


Lady  Chillingburgh's  Last  Card- Party     271 

the  room.  But  she  could  see !  And  the  whole  life 
power  in  her  became  concentrated  in  her  burning 
eyes.  Pshaw !  it  was  but  a  pale  girl  when  all  was 
said  and  done  !  And  the  hair,  positive  red !  .  .  . 
Aye,  and  overlong  in  the  limb  —  an  English  gawk ! 
She  would  call  herself  slender,  no  doubt — thin  was 
the  word  for  her.  Not  a  jewel,  not  even  a  pearl,  on 
the  forehead  !  If  Jeanne  de  Mantes  knew  milord  — 
him  so  travelled,  so  fastidious,  so  raffine  —  this  dish 
of  curds  and  whey  would  mighty  soon  pall  upon  his 
palate.  Yet,  through  all  this  tale  of  her  rival's 
disabilities,  a  relentless  voice,  far  away  in  her  soul, 
yet  clear  as  judge's  sentence,  repeated  that  Diana 
was  beautiful  and  held  Rockhurst's  love.  In  her 
despair,  something  like  madness  ran  hot  through 
her  veins.  Very  well,  at  any  rate,  as  Lionel  Rat- 
cliffe  had  it,  her  moment  was  at  hand  !  A  shud- 
dering fit  came  over  her  that  seemed  to  shake  her 
ideas  away,  as  an  autumn  wind  the  leaves.  .  .  . 
Her  moment  ?    What  moment  .  .  .  ? 

In  the  yellow  candle-light  within,  Lord  Rock- 
hurst  had  ceremoniously  greeted  his  son's  betrothed. 
Silently  she  courtesied.  Then,  as  they  drew  closer 
to  each  other,  the  man  saw  traces  of  tears  on  the 
fair  cheek. 


272  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"What  is  this?"  he  exclaimed.  "You  have  been 
weeping !" 

"Truly,  my  lord,"  said  she,  smiling,  yet  with  a 
little  catch  in  her  breath,  "I  should  be  ashamed  to 
show  you  this  disfigured  countenance." 

"Disfigured?"  he  echoed.  "  Nay  —  transfig- 
ured !" 

He  took  a  quick  step  toward  her  as  she  spoke; 
but  she  drew  back. 

"I  have  a  letter  from  Harry,"  she  said  constrain- 
edly;   and  Rockhurst  drew  himself  up,  darkening. 

"Aye,"  said  he,  and  then  approached  her  again, 
his  whole  manner  delicately,  indescribably  altered. 
"Good  news,  I  trust?" 

"  Oh,  vastly,"  she  answered,  with  a  small,  flustered 
laugh,  drawing  a  folded  sheet  from  her  bosom. 
There  was  a  deep  pause.  "lam  glad  to  have  heard 
from  Harry,"  she  declared  of  a  sudden,  bravely. 

"So  glad,"  he  said,  low-voiced,  "that  you  wept." 

"  My  lord  !"     There  was  fear  and  warning  in  her 

cry. 

"Ah,  Diana,  do  not  grudge  me  your  tears,  since 
'tis  all  I  may  ever  have  from  you!"  He  took  a 
hasty  turn  about  the  room,  —  his  eyes  averted,  not 
to  read  in  her  countenance  the  effect  of  this  cry  of 
revelation.     When  he  came  back  to  her,  iron  com- 


Lady  Chillingburgh' s  Last  Card-Party     273 

posure  was  once  more  upon  him.  "  I,  too,  heard  from 
my  son.  Harry  clamours  to  be  allowed  to  join  us. 
That  may  not  be.  Less  than  ever  now ! "  A  church 
bell  rang  mournfully  into  his  last  words.  "Why, 
hark !  the  very  bells  ring  out  the  words,  plague, 
plague  !" 

"Oh,  my  good  lord  !"  she  exclaimed,  her  finger 
on  her  lip. 

"Aye,  and  is  my  Lady  Chillingburgh  still  so 
mad?" 

"Mad?  No;  but  all  London  is  gone  mad,  is 
labouring  under  a  monstrous  illusion.  We,  in  this 
house,  alone  are  sane.  There  never  was  such  an 
ailment  as  the — "  she  dropped  and  formed  the 
evil  word  only  with  a  movement  of  the  lips.  "And 
if,  as  you  see,  our  friends  grow  scarcer  each  Wednes- 
day night,  there  are  a  thousand  indifferent  good 
reasons  to  explain  their  absence." 

Something  in  the  sweet,  assumed  archness  of  her 
tone  stirred  him  as  could  no  outburst  of  feminine 
terror. 

"  Diana,  child,  I  cannot  permit  this !  You  must 
not  remain  exposed  to  such  peril.  I  will  no  longer 
be  withheld  from  speaking  to  Lady  Chillingburgh." 

"Believe  me,  my  lord,"  she  prayed  him  earnestly, 
"you  would  but  anger  her;   you  would  but  be  ban- 


274  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

ished  this  house,  and  nothing  gained  indeed.  Oh, 
do  not  speak !" 

He  took  both  her  hands  as  she  involuntarily  flung 
them  out. 

"  Then  will  I  speak  to  you  only.  Diana,  think  of 
yourself,  of  Harry.  The  whole  town  is  in  flight. 
The  departure  of  the  Court  has  given  the  final  signal 
for  panic  — " 

She  smiled  as  she  slowly  withdrew  her  hands. 

"And  you,  my  lord,  when  do  you  join  the  fugi- 
tives?" 

"I?"  He  started.  "Why,  surely,  madam,  you 
know  I  have  a  post  to  keep !  'Tis  one  I  would  not 
desert  if  I  might.  My  men,  poor  devils,  look  to 
me—" 

"Ah,"  she  interrupted,  "and  have  I  no  post  to 
hold  against  the  same  enemy?  How  many  servants 
would  my  grandmother  retain  if  I  set  the  example?" 

"Diana!"  The  word  escaped  him  in  an  uncon- 
trollable impulse  of  tenderness.  But  he  checked 
himself  again  on  the  very  leap  of  passion.  "Ah," 
he  murmured,   "I  shall  have  a  brave  daughter!" 

She  smiled,  as  a  woman  smiles  at  the  hurt  inflicted 
by  the  best-beloved. 

There  came  from  without  the  sound  of  voices, 
uplifted  in  the  pleasant,  artificial  accents  that  mark 


Lady  Chittingburgh's  Last  Card-Party      275 

the  social  meeting,  and  Lionel  Ratcliffe  ushered  a 
couple  of  elderly  visitors  into  the  room  with  his 
elaborate,  if  ironic,  courtesy. 

"You  are  not  the  first,  gentlemen,  you  perceive. 
Indeed,  my  worthy  ancestress  is  somewhat  behind- 
hand in  her  usual  punctilio.  But  she  has  been  en- 
gaged (with  my  assistance)  in  the  dismissal  of  a  saucy 
footman  who  has  had  the  insolence  to  remark  to  her 
upon  these  red  crosses  with  which  it  hath  become  the 
rage  to  adorn  the  doors  of  certain  houses  these  days." 

Both  the  men  laughed  uneasily. 

"Tut,  tut!"  cried  the  elder  and  stouter,  and 
sniffed  surreptitiously  at  his  pomander  box. 

"Quite  so,"  assented  Lionel,  suavely. 

Whereupon  the  other  guest  broke  out,  as  in 
anger :  — 

"A  monstrous  nuisance,  'pon  honour  !  Gad,  sirs, 
I  am  here  straight  from  a  crony's  house  —  my 
Lord  Vernon's  and  no  other.  What  think  you 
greets  me  from  the  door-step  —  a  nobleman's  door, 
mark  you !  The  cross,  sir,  the  cross  !  and  by  my 
soul,  the  text,  '  Lord  have  mercy  on  us ! '  writ  beneath 
in  chalk!" 

"Lord  'a'  mercy!"  exclaimed  the  stout  man, 
starting  back  involuntarily.  "You  did  not  cross 
the  threshold?" 


276  "My  Merry  Rockhursl" 

"  No,  Mr.  Foulkes,"  returned  the  younger  severely. 
Then  he  burst  forth  again,  a  man  mightily  offended 
by  the  indelicacy  of  events  :  "  Gad,  sir,  I'm  not  fond 
of  the  country,  but  I'm  for  it  to-morrow  !" 

Foulkes  again  sniffed  his  spice-box,  this  time 
openly. 

"  Why,  so  am  I,  Sir  John  !  —  Ah,  Mistress  Har- 
court,  your  humble  devoted  !" 

Ratcliffe,  who  had  anxiously  looked  round  the 
room  for  Madame  de  Mantes,  while  the  guests 
exchanged  greetings,  now  saw  her  emerge  from 
the  window  recess,  and  threw  her  a  keen,  enquiring 
glance.  Without  meeting  his  eyes,  she  came  forward 
with  a  great  rustle  of  ballooning  silk  so  that  all 
turned  toward  her. 

"Pray,  Mr.  Ratcliffe,"  said  she,  in  a  gay  and 
coquettish  voice,  "you  have  not  yet  presented  me  to 
your  kinswoman." 

Ratcliffe  shot  swift  scrutiny  from  beneath  his 
drawn  brows  at  Diana's  surprised  face,  at  Lord 
Rockhurst's  dark,  impassive  countenance  and  the 
Frenchwoman's  crimson  cheeks  and  haggard  eyes, 
imperceptibly  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  com- 
plied :  — 

"Cousin  Diana — Madame  de  Mantes,  who  is 
kind  enough  to  add  her  charming  presence  to  our 


Lady   Chillingburgh's  Last  Card- Parly      277 

dwindling  company  to-night.  Agreeably  to  our 
grandmother's  wish,  I  have  been  acting  herald  to  her 
hospitality." 

Jeanne  sank  into  the  centre  of  her  amber  and 
blue  draperies;  emerged  languorous,  extended  with 
queenly  grace  a  hand  to  Foulkes  and  another  to  Sir 
John,  and  from  the  very  sweep  of  her  courtesies 
flung  a  condescending  phrase  at  her  rival :  — 

"Monsieur,  your  handsome  cousin,  has  been  so 
eloquent  about  you,  madam,  that  'tis  almost  as  if 
I  knew  you  already." 

"He  is  very  kind,"  faltered  Diana,  ill  at  ease, 
she  scarce  knew  why.  Then,  mindful  of  her  duty 
as  hostess,  "You  know  my  Lord  Rockhurst?" 

The  lady  looked  beyond  them  into  the  night  of  the 
garden. 

"We  have  met,"  she  said  in  dreamy  tones,  and 
sailed  into  a  third  obeisance. 

The  two  gentlemen  of  the  Court  instinctively  drew 
together. 

"  What  has  come  to  that  pretty  piece  from  France  ? 
Her  looks  are  oddly  altered,  think  you  not  ?  And 
her  manner  is  somewhat  singular  to-night.  What 
makes  she  in  this  prim  circle?  She  should  be  at 
Salisbury,"  whispered  Foulkes. 

Sir  John  Farringdon  jerked  his  thumb  knowingly 


278  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

toward  the  Lord  Constable;  both  looked,  laughed, 
and  wagged  their  heads.  Rockhurst  stepped  for- 
ward and  unostentatiously  drew  Diana  away  from 
Madame  de  Mantes.     Lionel  seized  his  moment:  — 

"What  did  you,  from  the  room?"  he  whispered 
hurriedly  in  his  ally's  ear.  "You  had  your  chance, 
and  let  it  slip!  I  had  not  brought  you  here — " 
He  stopped  suddenly,  staring  at  her  askance.  The 
great  enamel  clasp,  that  held  the  artfully  careless 
draperies  at  her  breast,  rose  and  fell  with  her  over- 
quick  breathing,  yet  her  mood  was  strangely  cheer- 
ful ;  nay,  incomprehensible,  for  he  marked  that  her 
eyes  were  red.  She  had  wept,  he  angrily  thought, 
and  robbed  herself  well-nigh  of  all  her  beauty. 
"You've  lost  the  trick  for  both  of  us,"  he  muttered 
bitterly. 

"  Don't  be  too  sure,"  she  bade  him,  drawing  closer 
to  him.  "Look  at  them!"  she  cried,  tossing  her 
curls  in  the  direction  of  Rockhurst  and  Diana. 
"Ha!  you'd  have  me  believe  Rockhurst  in  love  — 
in  love  with  that  white,  bloodless,  fireless  country 
stock!     Oh,  sir,  I  have  seen  Rockhurst  in  love!" 

A  smile  twisted  his  lips ;  he  looked  at  her  cruelly. 

She  proceeded  with  a  mixture  of  exultation  and 
bitterness:  — 

"  I  watched  them ;  they  thought  themselves  alone. 


Lady  Chillingburgh's  Last  Card-Party      279 

I  tell  you  he  made  no  attempt  to  do  more  than  kiss 
her  finger-tips!  Ah,  mon  DieuV  Her  laughter 
was  like  a  flame  running  through  her.  "  With  me  — 
Ah,  you  men  !  do  I  not  know  you?" 

"Pshaw!"  said  Ratcliffe,  deliberately.  "Some- 
thing you  may  know  of  us,  and  know  well.  But 
you  know  not  what  a  virtuous  woman  can  make  of 
us." 

She  wheeled  on  him,  clenching  her  hands  as  though 
to  strike  him. 

"Indeed!"  she  panted.  "And  have  I  not  had 
as  much  virtue  as  any  woman  —  once?"  Then, 
rinding  his  gaze  fixed  upon  his  cousin,  she  halted 
upon  precipitate  speech,  watched  him  keenly  for  a 
second,  and  broke  into  loud  laughter. 

"Hush!"  he  cried,  starting  at  the  wanton  sound. 

"Excellent  Lionel,"  she  said,  catching  him  with 
her  small,  burning  fingers,  "if  friends  are  to  help 
each  other,  they  should  be  frank.  But  now  I  know 
your  secret,  I  know  where  I  am.  As  Heaven  is 
good  to  me,"  her  laugh  rang  out  again,  "'tis  not  for 
the  money ;  why,  'tis  for  love  !  You're  in  love  with 
the  widow  !" 

He  looked  at  her  for  an  instant  as  if  he  could  have 
•  stabbed  her  willingly,  but  the  next  fell  back  into  his 
cynic  mood. 


280  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Congratulate  yourself,  then,"  he  retorted  drily, 
"since  I  have  all  the  more  reason  to  have  my  way. 
But,  pray  you,  here  comes  my  grandam.  She 
cares  not  for  such  loud  mirth." 

"Trust  me,"  she  tittered.  "I  await  but  the  ripe 
moment.  The  unmasking  shall  yet  be  played  to 
your  liking,  and — "  She  faltered;  into  her  eyes 
came  the  vagueness,  into  her  voice  the  singular 
change,  that  once  or  twice  already  had  aroused 
Ratcliffe's  attention.  In  a  kind  of  toneless  whisper, 
rapid  and  jerky,  she  added:  "Unmask?  Oh,  yes, 
milord.     No  doubt  —  after  supper  !" 

Lionel  fell  back  with  a  frown  of  dismay. 

The  folding  doors  were  thrown  apart;  two  foot- 
men entered,  bearing  candelabra  which  they  de- 
posited upon  the  centre  card-table.  There  was  an 
abrupt  cessation  of  talk  among  the  guests,  and  all 
turned  in  formal  expectation  of  the  venerable  hos- 
tess's entry.  Into  which  stillness  Lady  Chillingburgh, 
seated  very  upright  in  her  chair,  was  wheeled  by  a 
negro  boy. 


Ill 

THE   PLAGUE-CART 

Through  the  fantastic  mists  that  circled  in  her 
brain  to-night,  now  shrouding  her  faculties  in  gloom 
like  the  sinister  fog  that  hung  without,  now  shot 
as  with  many-coloured  fires,  Madame  de  Mantes 
gazed  upon  this  extraordinary  personality. 

Paralysed  to  the  waist  though  the  old  lady  was,  a 
fierce  vitality,  an  indomitable  will,  looked  out  of  the 
sunken  black  eyes,  spoke  in  the  cavernous  voice, 
imposed  itself  in  the  gesture  of  the  shrivelled  hand. 
Here  was  one,  in  spite  of  age  and  infirmity,  strong 
enough  to  bid  defiance  to  universal  calamity,  to 
look  Pestilence  in  the  face,  and  choose  to  ignore  it ; 
who,  in  the  midst  of  a  terror  akin  to  that  of  the 
scriptural  last  day  —  when  the  abomination  of 
desolation  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  the  city,  and 
he  that  was  on  the  housetop  might  scarce  come  down 
to  take  anything  out  of  his  house  —  could  still  give 
her  weekly  card-party  and  find  guests  to  obey  the 
summons. 

281 


282  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

As  her  chair  was  brought  to  a  stand  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  Lady  Chillingburgh  drew  her  eyebrows 
together  and  swept  a  slow,  severe  glance  over  the 
circle. 

"I  was  informed  the  company  had  assembled. 
How  now  !     x\re  these  all  my  guests?" 

There  was  a  kind  of  apologetic  stir,  as  if  each 
person  felt  responsible  for  the  paucity  of  the  gather- 
ing. Then  Rockhurst  and  the  other  men  advanced 
and  gravely  paid  their  devoirs.  Diana  drew  her 
grandmother's  chair  to  a  more  suitable  position 
by  the  big  card-table,  and  stood  behind  her,  in 
attendance.  Ratcliffe  instantly  proceeded  to  the 
introduction  of  the  new  guest.  He  was  once  more 
suave,  to  glibness:  — 

"The  Court  has  left  this  morning,  dear  madam; 
hence  this  unwonted  emptiness  of  your  rooms. 
Nevertheless,  here  is  a  lady  of  the  royal  circle. 
Madame  de  Mantes,  of  the  house  of  Madame  Hen- 
riette  de  France,  and  honoured  by  their  Majesties' 
particular  regard  —  she  still  prefers  the  advantages 
of  the  town." 

The  aged  face  became  wreathed  in  smiles. 
"I   trust   their   Majesties   were   in   good   health, 
madam,  when  last  you  saw  them,"  said  my  Lady 
Chillingburgh  in  stately  condescension. 


Lady  Chillingburgh's  Last  Card-Party      283 

Jeanne  courtesied  mechanically.  She  felt  of  a  sud- 
den childishly  afraid  of  the  figure  in  the  chair,  old, 
old  and  nearly  dead,  yet  so  alive  ! 

The  faint,  hollow  voice  went  on,  as  from  the 
recesses  of  a  tomb :  — 

"  You  play  cards,  of  course,  Madame  de  Mantes  !" 
To  which  the  other  made  answer  feebly,  into 
space : — 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes,  milady.     I  came  to  play." 

A  slight  shade  of  surprise  appeared  in  the  hostess's 
eyes;  but  after  a  second,  she  made  another  gesture 
with  the  clawlike  hand,  and  turned  with  an  unerring 
precision  of  politeness  to  her  friends  :  — 

"Sir  John,  I  rejoice  to  see  you ;  you  had  failed  us 
of  late.  Ah,  Mr.  Foulkes,  you  indeed  are  ever 
faithful!     But  where  is  your  good  lady?" 

"She  deemed  it  wiser  —  hem,"  Foulkes  coughed, 
a-sweat  with  embarrassment,  "I  mean,  she  had 
accepted  an  invitation  to  the  country,  and  left  this 
morning  with  our  family." 

"Indeed!"  commented  the  venerable  hostess, 
regally.  "My  Lord  Rockhurst,  you  prefer  basset, 
I  know.  So  does  Sir  John.  Will  you  be  seated 
yonder?  Grandson,  to  my  left.  Madame,  will 
you  face  me,  if  you  please?  Mr.  Foulkes,  sir,  to 
my  right.     Diana,  child,  shuffle  the  cards." 


284  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

They  fell  into  their  places  as  she  willed  them ; 
and  for  a  little  while  round  the  greater  table  there 
was  naught  but  the  business  of  the  moment:  the 
necessary  words  of  the  game,  the  rattle  of  the  dice, 
the  whisper  of  sliding  cards.  Diana,  her  fresh 
young  beauty  drawn  close  in  startling  contrast  to 
her  grandmother's  awe-inspiring  face,  held  the  cards 
for  the  trembling  fingers,  flung  the  dice. 

In  the  window  recess,  the  two  men,  under  cover 
of  a  languid  contest,  conversed  gravely  in  under- 
tones. But  ever  and  again  the  Lord  Constable's 
gaze,  charged  with  anxiety,  sought  Diana's  radiant 
head.  Jeanne  had  flung  herself  feverishly  into  the 
game,  which  seemed  to  her  all  at  once  a  matter  of 
colossal  importance. 

"I  marvel  extremely,"  quoth  Lady  Chillingburgh, 
"that  my  Lord  Marsham  should  be  so  late.  You 
are  acquaint  with  my  Lord  Marsham,  madame? 
He  is  much  at  Whitehall.  We  are  indeed  a  small 
party  to-night.  Let  us  hope  my  lord  will  presently 
appear." 

Foulkes,  who  had  shown  increasing  agitation 
during  this  speech,  now  dropped  his  cards  with  a 
muffled  "Mercy  be  good  to  us !" 

Ratcliffe  kicked  him  under  the  table,  the  while 
addressing  his  bland  tones  to  his  grandmother. 


Lady  Chillingburgh' s  Last  Card-Party      285 

"Do  not  expect  his  lordship  to-night,  madam. 
I  hear  he  has  convened  a  party  of  his  own." 

Sir  John  Farringdon,  straining  startled  ears  and 
eyes  from  the  other  table,  caught  Ratcliffe's  glance, 
and  mouthed  at  him  with  dumb  lips,  "Gone?" 
—  jerking  heavenward  with  his  thumb. 

"Gone,"  asserted  Ratcliffe's  nod,  while  his  thumb 
pointed  grimly  down. 

Lady  Chillingburgh  turned  her  quick  glance,  her 
high  pyramid  of  lace  and  white  curls,  in  daunting 
enquiry  toward  Sir  John.  But  her  grandson,  diaboli- 
cally fluent,  was  once  more  ready  with  his  irony:  — 

"Sir  John  is  offended  at  having  received  no 
invitation." 

"'Tis  very  strange,"  said  Lady  Chillingburgh. 
"  My  Lord  Marsham  is  not  wont  to  be  discourteous." 

"  'Twassucha  sudden  inspiration,"  soothed  Lionel. 

His  grandmother  fixed  him  with  stern  disapproval. 
Diana  sometimes  thought  that,  though  it  was  the  old 
woman's  fancy  to  be  humoured,  not  a  jot  of  their 
elaborate  pretence  escaped  her;  that  she  fiercely 
resented  the  mocking  manner  with  which  Lionel 
acted  his  role. 

"And  your  cousin,  sir?  Where  lurks  he?  Your 
brother  Edward,  I  mean,  Diana?" 

And  as  Diana  had  no  answer  but  a  look  of  dumb 


286  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

distress,  the  old  lady  finished  the  phrase  for  her- 
self :  — 

"  I  fear  young  Edward  can  find  little  time  for  the 
duties  he  owes  to  his  grandmother,  for  the  claims 
of  a  genteel  society,  so  eager  is  he,  since  he  is  come 
to  London,  for  less  reputable  amusements  !"  Again 
the  fiery  eyes  wandered,  seeking.  "And  Mistress 
Hill  ?  'Tis  the  first  time  in  seven  years  that  Mistress 
Hill  has  failed  me." 

Sir  John  Farringdon,  who  had  been  unaccount- 
ably nettled  by  Ratcliffe's  mocking  remark,  here 
lifted  his  voice  somewhat  overloudly:  — 

"I  can  give  tidings  of  Mistress  Hill,  madam.  I 
happen  to  know  that  this  evening  she  was  driven  out 
in  state.  No  doubt,  Mr.  Ratcliffe,  'twas  to  join 
that  gathering  of  my  Lord  Marsham's  to  which,  as 
you  were  good  enough  to  inform  the  company,  I 
was  not  asked." 

Rockhurst  rose,  frowning.  And,  laughing,  not 
pleasantly,  at  his  own  wit,  Sir  John  gathered  the 
neglected  stakes  and  slipped  them  into  his  pocket. 
Madame  de  Mantes  echoed  the  laugh,  shrilly, 
hysterically. 

" Mon  Dieu!  How  amusing  you  all  are!"  she 
cried,  and  furtively  wiped  her  forehead,  wet  with 
unaccountably  cold  clamminess  this  sultry  night. 


Lady  ChillingburgJi's  Last  Card-Parly      287 

A  dark  flush  crept  to  the  old  hostess's  bleached 
cheek.  Desultory  talk  or  grim  jest  failed  alike  to 
relieve  the  tension.  The  game  languished ;  scarce 
passed  a  card  or  rang  a  die;  the  ever-shadowing 
Horror  hung,  nightmare-dark,  ever  closer,  ever 
more  palpable,  over  all. 

"The  game,  madam!  The  game,  gentlemen!" 
But  it  was  idle,  even  for  the  bravest  spirit  among 
her  guests,  to  deny  the  invisible  Presence  in  their 
midst.  And  when,  following  upon  a  confused  ru- 
mour on  the  stairs,  a  great  cry  of  anguish  and  terror 
was  raised  at  the  very  door  of  the  room;  when, 
staggering  and  wringing  his  hands,  a  distraught 
youth  rushed  in,  it  was  almost  as  if  his  voice  was 
that  of  the  unacknowledged  Fear;  his  livid  face  its 
very  countenance. 

"For  the  Lord's  sake,  a  cup  of  the  plague  water  !" 

"Brother!"    cried    Diana.     She    sprang    toward 

him.     But  hastily,  even  roughly,  Rockhurst  thrust 

her  on  one  side,  and   the  boy  collapsed   into   the 

nearest  chair. 

Whereupon  Lionel,  coming  forward  with  his 
usual  coolness,  ran  his  fingers,  with  a  movement 
the  sinister  significance  of  which  most  people  had 
learned  to  interpret  these  days,  under  the  fair  curls 
of  the  bent  head,  feeling  behind  the  ears. 


288  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Pshaw  — 'tis  nothing!  .  .  .  Sheer  poltroon- 
ery," cried  he,  and  laughed  loudly,  and  struck  his 
cousin's  hunched  shoulders  with  no  gentle  hand. 
"Art  a  pretty  fellow  to  come  thus,  bellowing  like  a 
calf,  into  the  presence  of  ladies!" 

"Curse  it!"  moaned  the  lad.  "I  have  just 
knocked  against  two  women  carrying  a  coffin ! 
They  howled  like  sick  cats."  Sinking  his  head  on 
his  hands  once  more,  he  rocked  himself  backward 
and  forward.  "Oh,  this  wicked  London  !  Oh,  the 
judgment  of  God  1" 

"  Edward  !"  cried  Lady  Chillingburgh  imperiously. 
Her  voice  dominated  the  horrified  whispers  of  Sir 
John  and  Foulkes,  Madame  de  Mantes's  hysterical 
cries,  young  Edward's  obtrusive  groans. 

But  there  was  a  force  stronger  than  her  in  her 
house  that  night.  Sir  John  Farringdon  uncere- 
moniously poured  himself  a  bumper  of  wine,  drank 
it  hastily,  his  eye  on  the  door  toward  which  Foulkes 
was  already  uneasily  edging.  Madame  de  Mantes, 
who  had  been  sobbing  out  inarticulate  words  in  her 
own  tongue,  broke  into  babbling  laughter. 

Edward  sprang  to  his  feet,  thrusting  aside  his 
cousin's  restraining  hand. 

"I  will  speak  !  Grandam  shall  hear  the  truth  at 
last!     Tis  everywhere!     Every  one  is  getting   it! 


Lady  ChillingburgWs  Last  Card-Party     289 

Lord  Marsham,  ill  at  noon,  dead  at  four  !  Mistress 
Hill,  well  yesterday,  buried  to-night!" 

"I  .ommand  you  to  silence,  Edward  !" 

The  quavering  voice  rose  high,  catching  painfully 
at  lost  authority;  the  palsied  hand  aimed  a  feeble 
blow  at  the  table. 

"Why  must  we  stay,  because  of  the  old  woman's 
whimsy?"  continued  the  boy  in  fury.  "Zounds! 
I  go  to-night,  and  sister  with  me.  D'ye  hear, 
grandam !  I'm  only  come  here  to  get  the  travel 
money  from  you,  and  I'll  have  it.  I'll  go,  and 
sister  with  me !" 

But  the  aged  queen  was  not  yet  dethroned.  Her 
spirit  asserted  itself  in  a  supreme  effort.  Life 
seemed  to  come  back  to  her  paralysed  limbs;  she 
flung  out  one  hand  in  a  gesture  of  authority ;  this 
time  it  scarce  trembled. 

"  Diana,  your  brother  is  drunk.  I  order  him  to  be 
expelled.  Mr.  Foulkes,  the  game  is  not  concluded ; 
resume  your  seat!" 

She  broke  off.  Sir  John  Farringdon  had  made 
a  sudden  unmannerly  dash  from  the  room.  Foulkes 
stood  at  command  with  a  sickly  smile ;  but  his 
friend's  example,  the  open  passage,  were  too  much 
for  him ;   stealthily  the  door  closed  upon  his  retreat. 

Only  by  a  rigid  aversion  of  her  head  did  Lady 


290  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Chillingburgh  betray  her  knowledge  of  this  double 
defection. 

" Grandson  Lionel,  your  cousin  Edward  is  crunk. 
Conduct  him,  I  say,  from  this  apartment  and  lei  liim 
be  physicked.  Madam,  I  am  surprised  you  find 
amusement  in  such  an  indecorous  scene.  Foh ! 
It  seems  truly  that  we  shall  have  no  cards  to-night. 
Diana,  child,  take  your  guitar  and  sing  for  us. 
Sing  that  old  sweet  song  of  Master  Herrick's.  — 
My  Lord  Rockhurst,  have  you  yet  heard  this  new 
instrument?" 

But  the  Lord  Constable  had  followed  Diana  as  she 
moved  across  the  room  to  seek  the  guitar.  They 
stood  together  a  second;  he  saw  her  hand  tremble 
over  the  olive-wood  case. 

"Nay,  child,  you  can  never  sing  to-night!"  he 
whispered. 

"  My  lord,  I  must  —  anything  to  soothe  her.  Oh, 
the  physicians  have  ever  warned  us  of  the  danger 
of  agitation  for  her  !" 

"Diana  !"  Lady  Chillingburgh's  voice  was  weak 
and  strained ;  her  face  seemed  to  have  suddenly 
shrunk;  extinct  was  the  fire  in  the  eyes.  Yet  the 
will  still  struggled.     "Sing!" 

Rockhurst  stood  behind  Diana,  a  strong,  quiet 
presence,  watchful,  comforting.     She  smiled  at  him 


Lady  Chillingburgtis  Last  Card-Party     291 

over  her  shoulder.  He  bent  to>  her,  and  under  cover 
of  the  first  chords:  — 

"You,  at  least,  are  not  afraid ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  my  lord." 

Lionel  Ratcliffe  had  taken  no  pains  to  fulfil  his 
grandmother's  behest;  and  already  she  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  it;  but  he  had  soothed  Edward 
Hare  after  his  own  fashion  —  by  a  bumper  of  wine 
and  a  whispered  promise  to  provide  the  travel  money 
himself.  Now  in  the  lull  he  took  a  seat  behind 
Madame  de  Mantes  and,  his  eyes  on  Rockhurst  and 
Diana,  began  in  a  fierce  undertone :  — 

"Do  you  not  see  how  it  is  with  them?  Why,  in 
this  evening's  folly  everything  conspires  to  give  them 
to  each  other.  You  wait  the  ripe  moment,  say  you  ? 
Gad  !  Look  there,  I  say :  there  is  that  other  woman 
with  the  man  you  love  —  claim  him  now !  'Tis 
your  last  chance !" 

Madame  de  Mantes,  who,  since  Lady  Chilling- 
burgh's  rebuke,  had  been  sitting,  her  chin  propped 
up  on  her  hands,  her  curls  concealing  her  face, 
turned  slowly  toward  him.  He  started.  For  all 
his  fortitude  a  shudder  ran  through  him.  —  Through 
her  mad  eyes  the  Pestilence  was  looking  upon  him ! 

Diana's  voice  rose  faint  but  sweet :  — 


292  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Ask  me  why  J  send  you  here 

This  sweet  infanta  of  the  year? 

Ask  me  why  I  send  to  you 

This  Primrose  thus  bepearled  with  dew? 

Lady  Chillingburgh,  with  closed  lids,  beat  time 
vaguely  on  the  arm  of  .her  chair;  Edward  Hare 
pondered  over  his  last  mouthful  of  wine ;  the  French- 
woman was  muttering  to  herself  and  drawing,  under 
the  shadow  of  the  curls,  restless  patterns  on  the  table 
with  her  forefinger.  Lionel  sat  beside  her,  his 
starting  eyes  upon  her  face. 

/  will  whisper  to  your  ears: 

The  sweets  of  Love  are  mixed  with  tears  t 

sang  Diana,  in  a  voice  that  had  grown  firmer  and 
clearer. 

And  now,  so  faintly  at  first  as  to  be  almost  imper- 
ceptible, something  began  to  mingle  itself  with  the 
music.  The  clang  of  a  bell  struck  at  intervals, 
followed  by  a  long,  monotonous  call.  The  sound 
drew  ever  nearer.  Diana  faltered,  took  up  her  song 
again  bravely,  failed  once  more,  struck  a  broken 
note;  then  hand  and  voice  fell  mute.  Stillness 
held  them  all  within  the  great  room,  which  seemed 
to  wait  doom  the  more  inevitably  for  its  bright 
lights,  for  its  futile  air  of  indifference  and  gaiety. 


Lady  Chillingburgh's  Last  Card-Party     293 

Through  the  open  window,  out  of  the  darkness, 
gathered  a  heavy  rumble  of  wheels;  then  again 
uprose  the  call  of  the  bell,  the  cry  of  the  hoarse 
voice :  — 

"Bring  out  your  dead  !" 

In  the  breathless  pause,  Lady  Chillingburgh,  rising 
upon  those  feet  that  had  been  dead  to  motion  so  long, 
stood  erect,  and  flung  out  her  arm  with  an  angry  cry ; 
and  then  it  seemed  there  was  naught  in  the  big  chair 
but  a  huddled  heap  of  drapery.  The  Terror,  petri- 
fied on  young  Hare's  lip,  broke  out  roaring:  — 

"She's  dead  also!  Grandam's  dead!  The 
plague  !  She's  dead  of  the  plague  !"  He  made  one 
leap  for  the  door,  his  screams  awaking  confusion  in 
the  house. 

Within  Lady  Chillingburgh's  drawing-room  the 
drama  was  quickly  played. 

Diana  bent  in  anguish  over  her  grandmother, 
crying :  — 

"  She  has  swooned  !  For  Heaven's  sake,  madame, 
as  you  are  a  woman,  give  me  your  assistance  !" 

But  Lionel  had  sprung  to  her  side :  — 

"Back,  Diana!  Away  out  of  this  room.  Our 
grandmother  is  dead." 

"The  —  the  sickness?"  she  faltered,  with  white 
lips. 


294  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"The  plague?  Not  here — "  he  answered  her. 
"But  there!'  He  flung  his  pointing  finger  toward 
Jeanne  de  Mantes,  who  turned  her  face  with  a 
crazy  laugh  toward  them. 

Diana  recoiled  a  pace,  threw  out  her  hands  as  if 
seeking  support,  and  Rockhurst,  ever  close  to  her, 
caught  her  in  his  arms  as  she  swooned.  A  sudden, 
blind,  all-encompassing  fury  fell  upon  Ratcliffe. 

"Stay,  my  Lord  Constable  !"  he  cried  fiercely,  and 
made  a  spring  to  wrest  the  unconscious  burden  from 
the  hated  man's  embrace.  "Ah,  Rakehell  Rock- 
hurst, not  so  fast !" 

The  table  was  between  them.  He  was  wrenching 
at  his  sword  as  he  dashed  round  it,  pushing  Jeanne 
de  Mantes  aside;  when,  with  her  soft,  bare  arms, 
she  clutched  his  throat  from  behind. 

It  was  perhaps  his  horror  of  the  embrace  that 
robbed  him  of  the  power  of  resistance;  perhaps  it 
was  the  strength  lent  by  the  delirium  that  rendered 
her  burning  clasp  irresistible.  He  struggled,  yet 
was  powerless.  His  starting  eyes  beheld  the  Lord 
Constable  pass  out  of  the  room  to  the  garden,  bearing 
Diana  into  the  night.  He  gathered  his  energy  for 
a  last  shout  in  the  hope  of  raising  the  household  to 
his  help;  but  the  hot  arms  were  writhing  closer 
about  him,  the  scented  curls  beat  softly  against  his 


Lady  Chillingburgh's  Last  Card-Parly      295 

cheek.  The  creature  was  laughing,  pressing  up- 
ward her  disfigured  face,  devouring  him  with  her 
mad,  unseeing  eyes,  striving  to  reach  his  lips  for  the 
kiss  of  death.  —  And  she  was  raving :  — 

"At  last,  O  Rockhurst !  .  .  .  O  mon  beau  De- 
mon!" 

He  never  knew  how  he  loosed  himself  —  that 
moment  was  blank,  stamped  with  too  deep  a  horror 
to  be  ever  recalled. 

He  found  himself  as  in  a  nightmare  rushing  blindly 
through  the  blackness  of  the  fields,  feeling  as  if 
he  could  never  escape  from  that  lingering  touch  of 
contamination,  as  if  no  waters  could  ever  lave  him 
from  the  taint ! 

It  was  only  when  he  was  brought  to  a  standstill 
by  the  edge  of  the  river,  by  the  Essex  stairs,  that  he 
realised  where  his  frenzy  was  taking  him,  and  awoke, 
as  it  were,  to  sanity.  But  it  was  with  a  trembling 
in  every  limb  and  a  weakness  that  forced  him  to  sit 
on  the  steps.  The  water  lapped  at  his  very  feet, 
shivering  in  a  little  circle  of  light  cast  by  the  stair 
lantern.  He  dipped  his  hand  in  the  dark  ripple 
and  began  mechanically  to  lave  his  brow  —  to  lave, 
above  all,  his  lips. 

Thought  took  coherent  shape  again.  —  This  was 


296  "  My  Merry  Rockhursl  " 

the  end  of  his  close-set  plans.  Madame  de  Mantes 
had  failed  him  with  a  completeness  it  seemed  that 
must  have  required  Satan's  own  ingenuity  to  devise. 
Lord  Rockhurst  had  not  been  unmasked,  Diana 
was  with  him  in  his  power,  —  and  he,  Lionel 
Ratcliffe  (God,  with  what  appalling  reason !),  was 
at  last  afraid  of  the  plague ! 


BROKEN   SANCTUARY 


BROKEN    SANCTUARY 


THE   HAVEN   OF   REFUGE 

A  red  dawn  was  breaking  over  London ;  through 
the  undrawn  curtains  of  the  parlour  in  Lord  Rock- 
hurst's  small  house  in  Whitehall,  abutting  by  the 
Holbein  gateway,  the  first  rays  darted  in  to  mingle 
with  the  dying  gleam  of  a  pair  of  candles  that  gut- 
tered in  their  sockets. 

Chitterley  —  my  lord's  old  confidential  servant, 
who  had  shared  with  him  all  fortune's  vicissitudes, 
through  prosperity  and  peace,  through  war  and  exile, 
since  the  last  reign  —  rose  from  the  high-backed 
chair  upon  which  he  had  been  dozing,  and  stretched 
his  stiffened  limbs  wearily.  Muttering  to  himself, 
as  old  people  will,  he  fell  with  sudden  alacrity  to 
replenishing  (only  just  in  time,  for  it  was  fast 
going  out)  the  small  cresset  which  burned  at  his 
hand. 

"All  good  spirits  praise  the  Lord!  .  .  .  Now  I 
pray  no  misfortune  may  have  happened  this  night ! 

299 


300  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

.  .  .  Heaven  be  merciful  to  us;  these  be  times  of 
terror !" 

He  flung  a  new  handful  of  herbs  upon  the  rekindled 
embers,  and  watched  with  satisfaction  the  column 
of  fragrant  smoke  that  rose  circling,  now  blue,  now 
white,  to  hang  in  clouds  under  the  ceiling.  "  'Twas 
your  only  remedy  against  the  tainted  air,"  had  said 
Dr.  Garth ;  and  Dr.  Garth  was  the  King's  physician. 

"  Morning  already  —  and  no  sign  of  his  lordship  ! 
Had  it  been  a  year  gone,  now,  I  had  got  me  to  my  bed, 
and  ne'er  a  qualm.  But  these  be  no  times  for  frolic 
—  and  e'en  if  they  were,  my  lord  has  had  little 
stomach  for  it  these  weeks  agone." 

He  shook  his  head,  moved  to  the  window,  groaning 
for  the  aches  in  his  joints,  and  peered  into  the  street, 
in  the  hope  of  catching  at  last  a  glimpse  of  his  beloved 
master,  striding  down  Whitehall.  Dim  though 
Chitterley's  eyes  might  be,  he  would  know  a  furlong 
away  the  swing  of  the  tall  figure,  the  cock  of  the  sword 
under  the  folds  of  the  cloak,  the  proud  tilt  of  the  hat. 
But  the  street  was  deserted. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  day  was  rising  again  over  the 
stricken  city  but  to  make  visible  its  desolation.  The 
unwholesome  mists  of  the  night  still  stagnated  under 
the  reddening  light ;  there  was  none  of  that  air  of 
rejuvenescence,  of  waking  life-cheer,  which  morning 


Broken  Sanctuary  301 

ought  to  bring.  The  stillness  was  not  of  repose, 
but  of  hopeless  expectancy. 

One  of  those  street  fires,  which  were  kept  burning 
at  all  cross-roads,  to  combat  the  pollution,  could  be 
seen  in  the  distance,  toward  Charing  Cross,  smoulder- 
ing fitfully,  unattended,  the  last  thin  shafts  of  tar 
smoke  rising  straight,  dismal,  through  the  heavy  air. 
Somewhere  in  the  palace,  behind  the  banquet  hall, 
a  bell  rang  the  hour  —  it  sounded  like  a  knell  for 
those  that  were  that  day  to  die.  Presently,  in  this 
solitude,  a  woman's  figure  appeared,  creeping  round 
a  corner,  holding  on  to  the  walls,  dragging  herself 
painfully;  the  only  living  creature,  it  seemed,  left 
besides  himself  in  this  vast  city.  Presently  even  she 
disappeared  from  the  purview. 

Chitterley  shuddered ;  and  muttering  his  haunting 
"Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  !"  drew  back  from  the 
windows  to  go  tease  again  the  reeking  herbs  in  the 
cresset,  and  shift  needlessly  my  lord's  chair. 

"Not  even  a  pomander  could  I  persuade  him  to 
take  with  him  .  .  .  !" 

He  went  over  to  extinguish  the  candles  and  stood 
awhile  painfully  musing. 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  outer  door.  Hardly 
trusting  his  deaf  ears,  he  turned  to  listen  —  every- 
thing, anything,  was  an  added  terror  these  days  of 


.-I 


02  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 


terror.     The  knock  was  repeated,  faintly,  then  vehe- 
mently. 

"  'Tis  not  my  lord  —  he  hath  the  house  key. 
Pray  heaven  this  be  no  ill  news  !  — ■  Coming,  coming  !" 
he  cried  shrilly,  as  yet  another  summons  rang. 

Hardly  had  the  door  rolled  back  under  his  feeble 
hands  when  he  found  himself  thrust  on  one  side: 
a  woman  in  low-cut  dress,  with  dishevelled  laces  hang- 
ing in  shreds  at  her  shoulders,  brushed  past  him  and 
walked  tottering  into  the  room  beyond,  to  sink  upon 
the  great  chair. 

Like  an  old  watch-dog's,  Chitterley's  first  thought 
was  of  his  duty. 

"Madam  —  madam!"  he  protested.  "His  lord- 
ship is  not  within  — "  Then,  as  she  turned  upon  the 
querulous  sound,  and  looked  vacantly  at  him,  he 
staggered  back,  "  God  'a'  mercy ;    Madam  Mantes  ! " 

An  ice-cold  clutch  seemed  to  be  at  his  heart. 
Madame  de  Mantes  it  certainly  was,  the  grand 
French  lady  of  the  Court,  whom  Lord  Rockhurst 
had  many  a  time  entertained  in  days  (alack,  how 
far  off  they  seemed  !)  when  people  laughed  and  made 
merry ;  and  among  the  gay  she  had  been  the  gayest, 
among  the  bright  and  beautiful  the  brightest  and 
most  fair.  Chitterley  could  remember  how,  in  this 
very  room,  in  that  very  chair  —  which  they  called 


Broken  Sanctuary  303 

the  King's  chair,  for  his  Majesty  always  sat  in  it 
when  he  visited,  as  he  loved  to  do,  his  neighbour, 
"my  Merry  Rockhurst,"  for  an  hour  of  pleasant  con- 
verse —  she  had  sung  fit  to  make  his  old  heart  young 
again. 

Yet,  in  sooth,  this  was  Madame  de  Mantes. 
Torn  and  haggard,  through  the  strands  of  her  un- 
curled hair,  her  glazed  eyes  looked  at  him  from  red 
and  swollen  lids,  piteously,  scarcely  as  if  she  could 
see.     Except  for  a  patch  of  rouge,  her  face  was  livid. 

He  thought  of  the  figure  he  had  seen  crawling  along 
the  walls,  and  dread  was  upon  him. 

"How  hot  it  is — "  she  complained,  in  a  dry, 
whispering  voice.  "  Fires,  fires  everywhere  !  —  Give 
me  to  drink !" 

The  man  hesitated  a  moment,  upon  the  blind  im- 
pulse of  flight.  But  the  long  habit  of  fidelity  was 
stronger  even  than  fear  of  the  pestilence.  He  took 
up  a  flask  from  a  table,  —  the  en  cas  after  the  foreign 
manner,  awaiting  the  master's  return, —  poured  out  a 
glass  of  wine  and  tendered  it  to  her. 

"Hot?     Eh  —  but  your  hand  is  cold,  my  lady!" 

She  drank;   seemed  to  gain  a  little  strength. 

"Cold?"  she  took  up  the  word  with  an  inconse- 
quent laugh.  "So  would  you  be,  mon  ami,  had  you 
been  roaming  the  streets,  for  months  .  .  .  years  .  .  . 


304  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

as  I  have  been,  to-night !  You  are  a  kind  old  man. 
The  others  ran  from  me  .  .  .  one  robbed  me  and 
beat  me,  then  he,  too,  ran  away.  ..." 

And  then  Chitterley  marked  how  cruelly,  in  sooth, 
the  woman  had  been  dealt  with ;  her  gown  and  bodice 
rent  where  seemingly  the  jewels  had  been  snatched ; 
and  there  was  blood  on  her  neck,  trickling  from  the 
torn  lobe  of  her  little  ear. 

" Mon  beau  Rockhurst!"  she  went  on,  in  that  loud 
whisper,  as  of  one  light-headed.  "I  drink  to  you,  to 
you."  She  lifted  the  cup  again,  but  stopped,  catch- 
ing at  her  throat:  "It  is  fire  —  why  did  you  give  me 
fire  to  drink?" 

He  seized  the  glass  from  her  failing  hand. 

"  God  'a'  mercy  !  you  are  raving,  madam  !  —  you 
must  ..." 

She  turned  her  red  glance  to  him,  then  beat  the 
air  with  a  fierce  gesture,  imposing  silence,  and  seemed 
to  strain  her  ear  to  sounds  inaudible :  — 

"Oh,  don't  laugh,  Rockhurst,  don't  laugh  .  .  .  ! 
Oh,  if  you  like  not  a  salt  cheek,  I  can  be  merry  — " 

Chitterley  had  drawn  back,  step  by  step,  to  the 
farther  end  of  the  room.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  very 
loud  and  angrily,  he  spoke :  — 

"Madam,  you  are  ailing.  You  are  ill.  You 
must  go  home  I" 


Broken  Sanctuary  305 

She  came  back  to  her  surroundings  with  a  start  and 
a  cry :  — 

"Mon  Dieu,  where  am  I?  111?  Yes,  I  am  ill! 
I  am  strangling,  I  can't  breathe !"  She  clutched  at 
her  throat  with  both  hands,  feeling  for  something 
with  frantic  ringers;  then,  with  a  scream  that  rose 
and  seemed  to  circle  about  the  silent  room  like  some 
phantom  bird :  "  Misericorde  I  they  are  there  !  .  .  . 
La  peste !  I  have  the  peste  ..." 

Chitterley's  grey  hair  bristled  on  his  head. 

"A  physician !"  he  cried,  and  turned  to  fly. 

But,  in  her  delirium,  she  was  quicker  than  he  in 
his  senile  confusedness.  She  caught  him  by  the 
wrist  with  both  her  hands,  now  burning  as  though, 
indeed,  she  had  drunk  fire :  — 

"No  !  You  shall  not  leave  me  !  I  am  dying.  .  .  . 
I  will  not  die  alone!"  The  fleeting  of  madness 
returned  to  her  fever-wasted  brain :  "  We  are  put 
in  this  world  with  five  senses  —  and  'tis  but  com- 
mon sense  to  pleasure  them.  Aye,  Rockhurst  .  .  . 
but  when  it  comes  to  dying !  .  .  ."  Her  grip 
relaxed ;  she  wrung  her  hands.  "  How  can  such  as 
we  die?     Old  man,  a  priest,  a  priest ! " 

He  felt  that  he  would  be  less  than  man  if  he  did 
not  help  her.  Priest  and  physician,  she  should 
have  both,  —  poor  soul,  poor  soul ! 


306  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

He  tried  to  make  her  understand  him  —  speaking 
loud  as  to  the  deaf,  in  little  words  as  to  a  child.  The 
priest,  the  physician  —  aye,  she  should  have  them  — 
quickly  —  she  might  trust  to  him.  But  she 
looked  at  him,  uncomprehending,  with  eyes  ever 
wilder.  A  step  farther  on  her  awful  journey;  she 
seemed  already  a  world  away  from  her  fellow- 
humans. 

Then,  as  if  his  meek,  aged  countenance,  all  puck- 
ered in  distress,  were  a  spectacle  of  unspeakable  hor- 
ror, she  flung  out  both  arms  to  ward  him  from  her ; 
stared  round  the  room  like  a  hunted  thing,  and,  ere 
he  could  call  or  arrest  her,  had  darted  through  the 
half-open  door  of  the  inner  room  and  flung  it,  clap- 
ping, into  the  lock  between  them. 

"My  lord's  own  room  !" 

Chitterley  stood  a  second  helplessly;  then  came 
a  groan  from  within;  the  sound  of  a  heavy  fall. 
The  old  man  called  upon  Heaven  and  ran  on  his 
errand  of  mercy. 

The  wretched  woman  found  herself  in  a  darkened 
room,  with  heavy  curtains  closely  drawn,  illumined 
only  by  a  dying  night-lamp.  She  staggered  toward 
a  couch,  fought  for  a  moment  vainly  for  breath. 
Then  strength,  and  with  it,  mercifully,  conscious- 


Broken  Sanctuary  307 

ness,  gave  way;    she  fell  face  downward,  clutching 
the  silken  hangings. 

It  seemed  as  if  it  had  become  suddenly  broad  day 
in  that  room  where  Chitterley  had  kept  his  night's 
vigil  —  that  room,  famed  once  in  Whitehall  for 
those  gatherings  of  wit  and  beauty,  convened  for 
his  Majesty's  pleasure.  A  shaft  of  sunshine,  yel- 
low through  the  sullen  mists,  struck  the  chair  where 
Charles  had  been  wont  to  sit ;  where  but  a  few  mo- 
ments ago  had  agonised  one  whose  gay  winsomeness 
and  bird-song  he  had  so  often  commended. 

The  vapour  of  Sir  George  Garth's  sovereign  remedy 
rose  but  in  feeble  wisp-like  exhalations,  ever  fainter 
and  wider  apart  —  like  to  the  breath  of  some  dying 
thing.  Occasionally  a  sigh,  or  a  groan  and  a 
muffled  word  or  two,  came  dully  from  the  neighbour- 
ing room.  But  after  a  while  these  ceased ;  and  the 
only  sound  to  be  heard  was  that  of  a  blue  fly,  bloated 
and  busy,  circling  about,  emphasising  the  stillness, 
to  settle  ever  and  anon  with  a  heavy  buzz  on  the  wine 
which  Jeanne  de  Mantes  had  spilled  from  her  last 
cup. 


II 

THE   GOLD   WHISTLE 

Presently  there  approached,  along  the  flags  of 
Whitehall,  the  sound  of  steady  footfalls.  They 
mounted  the  steps  and  halted  before  the  door ;  a  key 
grated  in  the  lock,  and  Lord  Rockhurst  led  Mistress 
Diana  Harcourt  across  the  threshold. 

She  entered  without  a  word,  let  herself  fall  in  her 
turn  like  one  worn  out,  into  the  King's  chair,  and 
lifted  her  face  toward  him  —  a  face  blanched  indeed 
with  the  miseries  of  the  night,  its  terrors,  the  long 
vigil,  the  weary  wandering,  yet  full  of  a  brave, 
sweet  strength. 

None  of  her  serenity  was  reflected  on  Rockhurst 's 
countenance.  His  face  was  dark  as  with  an  inner 
conflict ;  he  averted  his  eyes  as  hers  sought  them. 
There  was  a  moment's  heavy  silence.  He  broke  it, 
at  length,  standing  over  the  tireless  hearth,  without 
looking  at  her. 

"Now  that  you  are  under  my  roof,  Diana,  I  trust 
you  will  consider  yourself  as  if  already  — "  he  hesi- 

308 


Broken  Sanctuary  309 

tated,  and  then  brought  out  the  words  harshly,  "as 
if  already  in  your  father's  house.  —  I  fear  me," 
he  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "you  are  dead  weary  after 
our  wanderings  this  night  .  .  .  fruitless  search  for 
shelter  —  the  flaming  cross  barring  us  from  every 
threshold  .  .  .  when  it  was  not  mean  selfishness 
and  childish  fears  that  drove  us  to  the  street  again  !  — 
Your  brother  fled  basely  ..." 

She  interrupted,  wincing  under  the  bitterness  of  his 
accents. 

"Ah,  poor  Ned,"  she  pleaded;  "he  is  but  a  boy. 
And  his  wits  are  never  of  the  strongest.  ...  In 
his  way,  he  loves  me.  And,  truly,  I  am  glad  he  has 
escaped." 

"You  have  a  strong  heart,  child!" 

Though  the  words  were  kind,  voice  and  look  were 
hard.     She  shivered  and  drooped  her  head. 

"You  are  cold,"  he  went  on,  with  a  sudden  soften- 
ing in  his  tone.  "Indeed,  'tis  the  chill  hour  of  the 
day."  He  glanced  hastily  round  the  room,  and 
catching  sight  of  the  spilt  wine  and  the  soiled  cup, 
frowned,  then  laughed  contemptuously.  "So  — 
even  old  Chitterley  hath  forgot  his  duty  !  These,  in 
sooth,  are  days  of  test.  I  will  rouse  him,  and  you 
shall  have  fire  and  refreshment." 

She  heard  his  tread  on  the  stairs,  the  opening  and 


310  "My  Merry  Rockhurst" 

shutting  of  doors  within  the  house.  Quickly  he 
came  back  to  her. 

"Aye,  even  my  old  Chitterley  gone!  ..."  he 
cried,  with  a  bitter  twist  of  the  lip.  "Neither 
brotherly  love,  nor  life-long  service  and  compan- 
ionship. .  .  .  Nay,  what  should  still  hold,  these 
times,  when  no  man  knows  the  hour  when  his  life 
will  be  withdrawn?  Oh,  are  you  human  — you, 
Diana,  who  sit  so  still  and  have  no  woman's 
plaint?" 

His  voice  broke  with  sudden  passion.  She  raised 
her  eyes  and  strove  to  smile ;  but  the  shudder  of 
fatigue  seized  her. 

Without  another  word  he  lifted  the  cresset  of  char- 
coal from  its  stand,  blew  upon  the  expiring  glow, 
cast  fresh  fuel  upon  it ;  then,  the  flame  once  more 
enkindled,  flung  the  whole  on  the  hearth.  She 
watched  him,  and  gave  a  little  feminine  cry  of  protest 
as  he  next  seized  the  first  thing  at  hand,  a  couple  of 
books,  and  tore  them  up  ruthlessly  to  feed  the  fire. 

"O,  my  lord  !"  she  began,  as  the  flame  roared  up 
the  chimney.  But  the  faint  laugh  died  on  her  lips 
when  she  met  his  glance. 

"I  must  leave  you,"  he  said,  when  he  had  thrown 
in  a  couple  of  logs.  "  I  must  leave  you ;  it  will  go 
ill  indeed,  if,  within  the  hour,  I  return  not  with  coach 


Broken  Sanctuary  311 

and  horses.     If  I  have  to  plead  King's  Service,  I 
shall  carry  you  out  of  the  infection." 

The  door  closed  on  him.  Left  alone,  Diana  sighed 
deeply.  All  the  bright  look  of  courage  faded  from 
her  face.  How  harshly  he  had  spoken  !  how  coldly 
he  had  looked  upon  her  —  when  not  averting  his 
eyes  as  from  something  troubling !  .  .  . 

Diana  Harcourt,  widow  of  twenty,  bound  by  a 
freak  of  fate,  through  the  merest  impulse  of  womanly 
pity,  to  Rockhurst's  young  son,  —  so  faithful  a  lover, 
so  gallant  a  youth,  —  knew  her  heart  given  to  Rock- 
hurst  himself !  What  shame  —  what  treachery  ! 
Moments  were  when  she  thought  to  guess  her  hidden 
love  as  returned ;  and  then  she  felt  herself  strong  and 
proud,  and  took  a  kind  of  high  spiritual  glory  in  the 
thought  of  how  true  they  both  would  remain  to  hon- 
our and  plighted  troth.  "Loved  he  not  honour 
more,"  as  the  chivalrous  song  had  it,  she  would 
have  none  of  his  love.  .  .  .  But,  to  feel  it  in  this 
sacred  silence,  in  this  noble  self-denial,  that  was  a 
kind  of  pain  more  exquisite  than  any  joy  she  had 
ever  known. 

Yet  moments  were,  again,  such  as  this,  when  his 
formal  manner,  the  sombreness  of  his  gaze,  smote  her 
with  distressing  conjecture.     Was  his  solicitude  but 


312  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

for  his  boy's  sake,  after  all  ?  Was  the  self-betrayal 
—  sweet  and  terrible  —  that  had  so  often  seemed  to 
hover  on  his  lips,  but  the  gallantry  of  the  high- 
bred courtier?  Or  —  worse  suspicion  yet!  —  had 
he  read  her  folly,  and  was  it  but  compassion  that 
spoke  in  his  lingering  gaze? 

As  she  sat  staring  dully  into  the  fire  he  had  kindled 
for  her,  vividly  the  troubled  scenes  of  this  night  of 
catastrophe  rose  before  her. 

Her  grandmother's  great  card-room,  lit  and  decked 
as  usual;  the  dwindled  company,  each  with  the 
heavy  knowledge  of  the  peril  without  and  about 
stamped  upon  his  countenance,  each  with  his  hypo- 
crite smile  for  my  Lady  Chillingburgh,  who  glared 
upon  them  from  out  her  chair,  and  forbade  the  pesti- 
lence to  exist,  since  she  would  have  none  of  it.  .  .  . 

Next,  the  fair  French  lady  from  the  Court  courtesy- 
ing  in  her  waves  of  amber  satin,  and  fixing  her, 
Diana,  —  aye,  and  the  Lord  Constable,  too,  — 
with  such  singular  eyes.  She  recalled  to  mind, 
truly,  how  those  fierce  eyes  had  followed  Rockhurst, 
and  how  Cousin  Lionel  had  smiled  as  he  watched. 
.  .  .  Tush,  the  poor  creature  knew  not  what  she 
was  doing — was  she  not  stricken  ill  and  in  fever? 
—  She  might  well  have  mad  eyes.  .  .  . 


Broken  Sanctuary  313 

It  was  Lionel  who  had  brought  her.  Lady  Chil- 
Hngburgh's  own  grandson  who  had  given  the  citadel 
to  the  enemy  it  had  so  long  defied  !  In  rapid  suc- 
cession the  horrid  events  reenacted  themselves  in 
Diana's  brain :  — 

She  heard  her  brother  screaming  on  the  stairs, 
saw  him  break  in  upon  them,  a  foolish  country  lad, 
frenzied  in  his  panic. 

She  saw  the  frightened  faces  of  their  guests,  and 
Lionel's  ever- mocking  smile  — "Sheer  poltroonery  !" 
—  he  was  saying.  And  ever  and  again  she  sought 
and  found  the  comfort  of  Rockhurst's  strong  pro- 
tective glance. 

And  then  came  the  end.  .  .  .  The  huddled 
figure  in  the  great  chair.  The  face  of  her  that  had 
had  so  stout  a  heart,  conquered  in  death  —  but  less 
piteous,  less  awful  sight  than  the  living  face  of  the 
French  madam.  "  The  plague  is  there — "  She 
heard  Lionel's  cry  of  warning,  and  then  all  is  black 
about  her. 

And  now  she  relived  the  moment  when  she  had 
awakened  from  her  swoon;  darkness  and  silence 
all  about  her.  She  thought  that  the  nightmare  of 
the  card-room  had  given  way  to  some  exquisite  dream. 
.  .  .  Rockhurst's  arm  was  supporting  her,  her  head 
rested  on  his  shoulder,  and  the  solitude  of  a  sombre 


314  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst " 

night  held  them  safe.  Above  their  heads,  out- 
stretched tree  branches  swayed  murmurously  as  the 
breeze  stirred.  She  heard  his  heart-beats  beneath 
her  ear,  and  an  unknown  joy  ran  like  music  in  her 
veins :  life,  reality,  seemed  thrust  as  far  away  from 
her  as  yonder  flickering  lights  in  the  black  distance. 
It  seemed  indeed  a  dream,  and  surely  one  may  accept 
happiness  in  a  dream !  Sighing,  she  had  yielded 
herself  to  it  one  moment  —  one  moment  —  alas, 
even  as  she  stirred,  lo,  it  was  hers  no  longer !  Be- 
neath her  hands  was  fine  turf,  in  her  nostrils  the  scent 
of  fading  roses ;  she  knew  where  she  was  —  some- 
where under  the  beeches  of  Chillingburgh  House 
gardens.  She  remembered,  she  understood.  He 
had  snatched  her,  unconscious,  from  the  danger  of 
the  infected  house.  And  as  she  moved,  his  clasp 
relaxed ;  he  spoke  to  her,  coldly  enough,  she 
thought : — 

"You  are  better?     It  is  well." 

.  .  .  Then  had  begun  their  strange  pilgrimage 
through  the  London  streets,  the  long,  long  night. 
She  went  beside  him,  through  the  tangle  of  unknown, 
unlit  ways;  seeing  him  only  ever  and  anon,  painted 
as  it  were  against  the  darkness  by  the  glare  of  the 
smoky  street  fires  in  the  more  open  spaces.     In  his 


The  huddled  figure  in  the  great  chair.  The  face  of  her  that  had 
so  stout  a  heart,  conquered  in  death  —  but  less  piteous,  less  awful 
sight  than  the  living  face  of  the  French  madam. 


Broken  Sanctuary  315 

white  hand,  the  sword  drawn,  guarding  her  from  the 
prowling  thieves  of  the  night.  Inhuman  wretches, 
to  whom  the  stricken  city's  extremity  was  fortune's 
boon,  slinking  after  them  like  pariah  dogs  .  .  .  ! 
They  had  spoken  little :  mostly  words  of  bare  need. 
But  once  he  had  told  her  she  was  brave;  and  once 
that  she  was  strong  indeed.  .  .  .  She  had  at  one 
moment  noticed  a  great  pity  in  his  eyes. — Ah,  he 
need  never  have  pitied  her;  she  had  been  happy, 
being  with  him. 

She  started  from  her  heavy  revery :  some  one  was 
knocking  at  the  casement. 

Outside  the  window  the  lines  of  a  man's  head  and 
shoulders,  a  man  hatless,  with  disordered  periwig, 
were  silhouetted  blackly  'against  the  morning  light. 
She  sprang  to  her  feet,  terror  stifling  the  scream 
in  her  throat.  She  remembered  the  marauders  that 
had  slunk  after  them  in  the  night,  more  to  be  dreaded 
these  desperate  days  than  pestilence  itself.  But  it 
was  her  own  name  that  met  her  ear,  urgently  cried :  — 

"Diana,  open  !  —  'Tis  I,  Lionel." 

Before  the  words  had  penetrated  to  sense,  she  had 
recognised  the  voice.  Upon  the  impulse  of  her  relief, 
she  hastened  to  the  window  and  flung  the  casement 
apart. 


316  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Cousin  Lionel  .  .  .  !" 

But  this  was  a  Cousin  Lionel  she  had  never  before 
known.  About  his  livid  face  the  dank  curls  hung 
in  wild  dishevelment  —  he,  whose  person  had  ever 
seemed  as  sedately  ordered  as  his  mind.  He  mo- 
tioned her  from  him  so  fiercely  that  she  fell  back  in 
fresh  alarm. 

"Aye,  Diana,"  said  he,  answering  her  look,  "you 
may  well  be  afraid  —  'tis  like  enough  I  have  it ! 
And  were  it  not  that  I  am  here  to  save  you  from 
worse  than  plague,  for  the  sheer  love  I  bear  you,  there 
should  be  leagues  between  us  —  Stand  where  you 
are,  Diana  !     Come  not  a  step  nearer  !" 

He  drew  himself  with  effort  up  to  the  window-sill, 
from  some  ledge  whereon  he  had  climbed;  then, 
seated,  he  looked  in  upon  her  again;  and  to  his 
pallid  countenance  came  a  ghostly  semblance  of  the 
old  sarcastic  smile  :  — 

"Never  enquire  how  I  tracked  you.  I  knew 
that  the  Rakehell,  who  chivalrously  took  you  from 
the  charge  of  your  own  kin  —  to  rescue  you  from 
the  plague,  forsooth !  —  would  find  no  shelter  for 
you  but  that  of  his  own  honourable  habitation !" 

"Lionel  .  .  .  !" 

Sudden  anger  drove  all  fear  from  her.  He  went 
on:  — 


Broken  Sanctuary  317 

"You  would  have  been  safer  at  Chillingburgh 
House,  once  the  stricken  Frenchwoman  gone.  And 
so  my  lord  knew  as  well  as  I.  Our  grand  dame  never 
died  of  the  sickness,  child,  but  of  a  fit  of  anger  — ■ 
and  not  before  her  time,  either !  But  let  that  pass. 
I  saw  thee  on  the  Strand,  Diana,  a  while  ago  — 
marked  thee  hither  and  knew  the  trick  played  on 
thee.  A-tramp  the  whole  night,  till  your  body  and 
your  spirit  be  worn  out.  Is't  not  so?  And  my  lord 
...  so  tender,  so  protecting,  so  fatherly.  Is't  not 
so?" 

"Lionel  .  .  .  !" 

The  man  changed  his  tone :  — 

"Diana,  'tis  but  a  few  hundred  paces  to  her  Maj- 
esty's House  of  the  Blue  Nuns,  in  St.  Martin's  Lane, 
where  our  kinswoman,  Madam  Anastasia,  would 
shelter  you  in  honour  and  safety.  Come  forth  now, 
from  this  place;  'tis  worse,  I  tell  you,  than  the 
Pest-house !  I  will  go  before  thee ;  I  can  yet 
protect  thee  along  the  street,  if  I  may  not  approach 
thee.  ..." 

Never  had  Diana  heard  that  ring  of  passion  from 
his  lips;  even  when  he  had  pleaded  for  her  love, 
there  had  always  run  an  undercurrent  of  mockery 
and  cynicism  in  the  tenderest  word.  Truly,  these 
days  changed  all  men's  nature.     But  Diana  was  not 


31 8  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

swayed :  she  was  afire  at  the  odiousness  of  the 
slander  cast  on  him  she  loved. 

"  I  thank  you,  cousin,"  she  returned  coldly.  "  But 
I  have  placed  myself  under  Lord  Rockhurst's  pro- 
tection; and  since  you  have  been  pleased  to  watch 
me,  sir,  you  will  have  seen  the  Lord  Constable  leave 
this  house  but  a  few  moments  ago.  It  was  in  search 
of  a  coach,  and  it  is  his  purpose  to  escort  me  out  of 
the  town,  even  this  day,  to  my  own  home." 

The  man  on  the  window-sill  gave  a  fierce  laugh. 

"Art  as  simple,  Diana,  as  thou  wouldst  fain 
make  out  ?  Dost  really  believe  thy  protector  —  'tis 
a  fine  name,  in  sooth — will  find  thee  that  coach?" 

"Not  a  word  more!"  broke  in  the  other.  She 
had  as  strong  a  spirit  as  his  own.  "Who  should 
know  Lord  Rockhurst  better  than  I?  Ah,  who  has 
better  reason  to  know  him?  If  all  the  world  were 
to  believe  evil  of  him,  yet  would  I  still  trust  him 
with  my  life." 

"And  is  there  naught  you  value  more  than  life?" 

"How  dare  you,  cousin  !" 

"  Is  your  good  name  nothing  to  you  ?  "  he  insisted. 

"How  dare  you  !"  she  repeated. 

"Nay,  Diana,  listen  to  me!  —  Shall  I  tell  thee 
what's  to  happen?  The  Rakehell  will  return  to  thee 
in  a  little  while,  dejected,  aye,  heart-broken  !     Far 


Broken  Sanctuary  319 

and  wide,  not  a  horse,  not  a  coach,  not  a  driver  to  be 
had  for  love  or  money.  He  has  bargained,  pleaded, 
threatened,  in  vain.  So  thou  must  even  trust  thy- 
self to  him  further — to  him  who  is  as  thy  father  .  .  ." 

Diana  started,  bit  her  lip.  The  words  struck  her ; 
and  vehemently  she  thrust  them  from  her. 

"Then,  Diana,"  went  on  RatclifTe,  ever  more  cut- 
tingly, "will  he  discover  something  strange  in  the 
character  of  his  protective  feelings.  .  .  .  Thou,  too, 
will  read  in  thine  own  .  .  .  filial  .  .  .  heart.  Be- 
hold, the  end  is  not  difficult  to  guess  !" 

"Oh,  foul-mouthed!"  cried  the  young  widow, 
recoiling. 

Indignation  and  terror  mixed  were  in  her  voice. 
To  have  the  veil  thus  torn  by  sacrilegious  hands 
from  the  innermost  shrine;  the  sanctuary  of  her 
tender  secret  thus  broken !  .  .  .  Ratcliffe  clutched 
the  window-frame  with  both  hands  and  thrust  his 
face  into  the  room,  his  features  working  again  with 
that  unwonted  passion  :  — 

"Diana  —  ah,  Diana,  for  heaven's  sake, you  must 
understand  !  These  days,  it  seems,  all  barriers  are 
broken  down,  all  laws  violated  with  impunity. 
And  even  now,  even  you,  Diana,  will  surely  pay  the 
price,  if  you  accept  the  protection  of  Rakehell  Rock- 
hurst!" 


320  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Diana  swept  a  gesture  of  final  scorn :  — 

"Begone,  Lionel !  Away  with  you  as  you  came! 
I  pity  you  .  .  .  thief  of  men  and  women's  good 
report.  Alas  !  cousin,  do  I  not  know  what  purpose 
you  have  in  this  slander  ?  Shame  that  these  days  of 
terror  should  wake  you  to  no  worthier  mind!" 

The  man  fixed  her,  a  breathing  space  or  two, 
without  speaking.  Had  she  been  less  incensed,  she 
might  have  noted  something  in  his  look  singularly 
belying  the  thoughts  she  imputed  to  him  —  might 
have  seen  a  purpose  as  earnest  as  it  was  selfless. 

"One  word,  then,  and  I  go  —  Di,  from  the  days 
when  we  were  children  together,  I  have  loved  thee. 
Dost  remember  how  I  called  thee  my  little  wife? 
You'll  have  none  of  my  warning  now  —  so  be  it ! 
In  a  little  while  you'll  want  me,  you'll  call  on  me. 
I  shall  be  near,  I  shall  hear  thee.  —  Stay ;  here  is 
the  gold  whistle  you  once  gave  me  —  that  Easter  — 
years  ago !  You  have,  of  course,  forgotten  it.  I 
have  kept  it  close,  you  see." 

He  hesitated  a  second,  poising  the  bauble  at  the 
end  of  its  long  ribbon,  frowning.  Then  he  cast  it 
into  the  room. 

"Risk  for  risk  —  all  is  risk!  ...  My  lips 
have  not  touched  it  since  the  pestilence  came  so  nigh 
them.     Di,  hark  to  me,  Di.     When  you  want  my 


Broken  Sanctuary  321 

help  this  day,  you  have  but  to  whistle,  I'll  hear  and 
help.  ...  I  go.  Yet  not  so  far  but  what  I  can 
guard  my  own." 

She  stood,  her  head  averted ;  her  foot  beating  the 
floor,  image  of  scornful  defiance.  He  slipped  down 
from  his  perch  to  the  ledge  and  poised  himself  yet 
a  second,  looking  in  on  her  as  when  he  had  first 
appeared :  — 

"Thou,  in  the  Rakehell's  hands  —  and  the  world 
gone  mad  around  thee  .  .  .  !  Ah,  shall't  whistle 
sooner  than  thou  thinkest !" 

She  wheeled  to  silence  him;  he  was  gone.  A 
bitter  conflict  rose  in  her  mind  as  she  stood  staring 
at  the  blank  window  space.  In  spite  of  herself,  the 
memory  of  his  look,  of  the  deep  earnestness  of  his 
voice,  began  to  shake  her  sense  of  security.  .  .  .  He 
thought  he  had  the  sickness,  yet  he  came  to  warn  her  ! 
.  .  .  Another  man  would  have  had  little  reck  of 
aught  but  himself,  with  that  shadow  of  doom  spread 
over  him.  .  .  .  Yet  he  hated  Rockhurst  —  oh, 
how  he  hated  him !  —  and  had  he  not  all  but  killed 
Rockhurst 's  son  for  aspiring  to  her?  .  .  .  With  the 
perspicacity  of  his  relentless  love  for  her,  he  had  read 
her  secret.  Reason  enough,  then,  that  he  should 
strive  to  poison  her  mind  against  one  whom  she 
knew  so  noble.  .  .  .     Yet  again,  unscrupulous,  dar- 


322  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

ing,  cruel  even  in  his  very  love  for  her,  Ratcliffe 
had  taken  piteous  pains  to  guard  her  against  him- 
self. Now,  he  was  lurking  in  the  lanes  below,  for 
her  sake,  instead  of  hying  him  to  the  nearest  physi- 
cian, so  urgent  did  he  believe  her  danger.  .  .  .  Was 
there,  could  there  be  danger? 

Her  ear  caught  the  sound  of  the  key  in  the  lock ; 
she  knew  it  was  Rockhurst  returning.  On  a  sudden 
impulse  she  picked  up  the  whistle  and  thrust  it  into 
her  bodice.  Her  heart  beat  to  suffocation  as  she 
heard  his  hand  on  the  door. 


Ill 

NEMESIS 

Rockhurst  came  in  slowly  and  stood  a  moment, 
contemplating  Diana  before  he  spoke.  The  bronze 
of  his  face  was  singularly  blanched;  his  grave  eye 
was  alight  with  a  threatening  of  fire.  Then  he  spoke, 
quickly :  — 

"I  have  beaten  the  neighbourhood.  Whitehall 
is  as  a  desert,  the  name  of  the  King  itself  an  empty 
sound.  The  whole  town  is  fled,  dying  or  dead." 
He  took  her  hand,  clasping  it  with  a  pressure  so  fierce 
as  almost  to  draw  a  cry  from  her.  "For  love  or 
money,  it  is  impossible  to  obtain  horse,  coach,  or 
man." 

Her  fluttering  heart  slowed  down  to  the  dull  beat 
of  misery ;  she  sought  to  draw  her  hand  from  his. 

"Oh,  my  lord!" 

Unheeding,  he  went  on  :  — 

"Pestilence   is   rushing   onward    like    a    flood  — 

There  is  no  rock,  no  hilltop,  that  is  not  fated  to  be 

323 


324  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

swallowed  up  in  time.  Diana,  we  are  as  those 
doomed  by  the  Deluge,  who  have  taken  refuge  on 
the  mountain  only  to  watch  the  deadly  waters  rise 
and  count  the  hours  left  to  them  !" 

He  broke  off;  she  had  wrenched  her  hands  from 
his  grasp  and  had  shrunk  away  from  him,  covering 
her  face.  Not  the  dreadful  import  of  his  words 
frightened  her,  but  the  fire  of  his  glance,  the  mad 
exultation  of  the  voice  that  thus  pronounced  their 
doom. 

"What,"  he  exclaimed,  his  tones  vibrating  to  a 
tenderness  more  terrible  still  to  her  ears,  "have  I 
scared  thee?  —  Brave  heart,  afraid  at  last?" 

"Yes,  yes  —  I  am  afraid,"  she  murmured  behind 
her  clasped  fingers.  But,  even  as  she  spoke,  her 
strong  nature  reacted  against  the  folly  of  weakness. 
She  dropped  her  hands,  drew  herself  proudly  up  and 
turned,  looking  him  steadily  in  the  eyes :  — 

"No,  my  lord,  'twas  but  an  evil  thought !" 

He  returned  her  gaze  fixedly,  and  she  saw  how 
the  blood  began  to  rise,  slow,  dark,  in  his  cheek. 

"Yet,  why  should  I  say  we  are  doomed?"  he 
went  on,  under  his  breath.  "Why  should  not  this 
house  be  as  the  ark  of  refuge  ?  Diana,"  —  the  dread- 
ful joy  broke  out  again  in  eye  and  accent,  —  "have 
you  understood  how  it  stands  with  us?     There  is 


Broken  Sanctuary  325 

no  help  for  it;    we  are  shut  in  together.     Heaven 
itself  has  sealed  the  way  that  would  divide  us  — " 

So,  it  had  come  !  That  moment  she  had  dreamt 
of,  with  a  fierce  abandonment  to  his  ecstasy;  that 
moment,  the  very  thought  of  which  she  had  prayed 
against  with  tears,  as  if  the  mere  passage  of  its  for- 
bidden sweetness  through  her  heart  were  a  sin ! 
It  had  come,  in  this  bitterness,  this  shame,  this 
shattering  of  the  ideal  she  held  so  high  !  She  moved 
from  him  without  a  word,  let  herself  drop  mechani- 
cally into  the  King's  chair,  and  sat,  her  hands  clasp- 
ing the  carven  arms,  staring  straight  before  her. 
Rockhurst  fell  on  his  knees  beside  her. 

"Diana,  Diana  —  I  love  you!  —  And  ah,  Diana, 
you  love  me  — " 

She  flung  out  her  hands  to  push  him  from  her, 
and  all  her  wounded  heart  spoke  in  her  cry :  — 

"  Do  not  say  it,  my  lord  !  Oh,  I  have  so  dreaded 
to  hear  you  say  it !" 

But  her  very  pain  was  triumph  in  his  ears.  As 
masterfully  as  he  caught  and  imprisoned  her  hands 
once  again,  so  did  his  passion  seize  and  crush  her 
woman's  scruples:  — 

"We  are  alone  in  a  dying  world!  Who  knows 
if  we  shall  see  another  dawn  !     Shall  we  not  take  the 


326  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

day  that  is  given  us,  make  use  of  life  while  life  is  still 
ours?" 

And  while  she  looked  at  him,  speechless,  her  eyes 
dark  in  the  sorrowful  pallor  of  her  face,  he  cried  in  a 
tone  that  pierced  to  her  very  marrow :  — 

"  Diana  —  come  to  my  arms  and  teach  me,  let 
me  teach  thee,  how  sweet  life  can  be  .  .  .  how 
sweet  death  can  be  !" 

She  had  ceased  to  struggle  against  him.  Her  hands 
lay  inert  in  his. 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  then;  and,  motionless, 
she  submitted.  But  the  tears  slowly,  slowly  welled 
to  her  piteous  eyes.  Then  he  drew  back  from  her, 
rose  and  stood  again,  gazing  at  her;  the  exultation, 
the  fires  of  ecstasy,  fading  from  his  face,  and  some- 
thing hard,  ruthless,  taking  their  place. 

"I  can  get  a  priest  to  wed  us,  in  Whitehall,  ere  the 
day  be  an  hour  older,"  he  said,  frowning  upon  her. 

Through  the  tears  she  would  not  shed,  her  great 
eyes  dilated  upon  him. 

"And  what  will  you  say  —  what  shall  we  say  — 
to  your  son,  my  lord  ?  " 

Rockhurst  started  as  if  he  had  been  struck.  A 
masterful  man,  who  all  his  life  had  dominated  others, 
he  bent  his  brows  with  a  terrible  resentment  on  her 
who  dared  thwart  him  at  this  supreme  hour  of  his 


Broken  Sanctuary  327 

will ;  dared  lift  against  him  the  one  weapon  that  could 
pierce  his  armour. 

"You  took  the  trust,  my  lord,  even  as  I  yielded  my 
troth.  ..." 

His  anger  broke  forth,  the  more  ruthlessly  that  he 
was,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  perhaps,  abandoning 
himself  to  an  unworthy  part,  a  part  of  weakness. 
Broken  phrases  escaped  his  lips,  contradictions  lost 
in  the  irresistible  logic  of  passion. 

"My  son,  ...  my  son?  —  I  shall  answer  for  my- 
self to  my  son.  —  Nay,  what  account  have  I  to  render 
to  my  son  !  A  beardless  boy,  shall  he  come  between 
us?  .  .  .  Diana,  your  eyes  have  lied  a  thousand 
times,  or  you  love  me  !  .  .  .  That  promise  to  Harry 
was  no  promise,  wrested  from  you,  from  me,  because 
of  a  white  face,  pleading,  because  of  a  red  wound  ! 
And,  if  he  be  true  flesh  of  mine,  he  will  have  none 
of  you,  your  heart  being  another's.  —  Why,  my  dear," 
—  his  voice  changed,  —  "think  you  Harry  will  ever 
have  his  bride,  will  ever  see  his  father  again?" 

So  long  as  his  eye  flamed,  as  his  voice  harshly 
chid  her,  she  felt  strong.  But  against  that  note  of 
tenderness  she  weakened.  A  sense  of  physical  fail- 
ing came  over  her ;  she  thought  of  the  moment  when, 
in  the  darkness  of  the  garden,  she  had  awakened  to 
find  herself  in  his  arms.  .  .  .     Perhaps,  in  truth, 


328  "  My  Merry  Rock  hurst  " 

death  was  very  near  to  them.  To  slip  from  the 
moorings  of  life,  on  the  tide  of  his  great  love  —  ah, 
he  had  said  it ;  it  would  be  sweet !  She  clasped  her 
hands  to  her  breast ;  but  at  the  touch  of  Lionel's 
gold  bauble,  something  in  herself  that  Rockhurst's 
words  had  lulled,  started  into  vivid  life  again ;  some- 
thing that  would  not  let  her  accept  the  easier  course. 
If  death  were,  even  at  this  moment,  gloating  upon 
them,  the  better  reason  to  look  on  it  with  loyal  eyes. 
Were  Harry  indeed  fated  never  to  meet  bride  or 
father  again,  then  must  father  and  bride  remain 
sacred  in  noble  memory  !  And  not  because  she  and 
Rockhurst  were  so  fain  to  break  it,  was  a  promise 
less  binding  a  promise.  One  sentence  of  Lionel's 
rang  in  her  ear :  "Behold,  the  end  is  not  difficult  to 
guess"  —  and  with  it  the  echo  of  her  own  voice  cry- 
ing back  to  him,  "Oh,  foul-mouthed  !" 

Quickly  she  made  her  choice;  and,  brave  in  her 
pain,  had  a  smile  as  she  turned  to  speak. 

"Once,  my  lord,  you  saved  me,  when  I  scarce 
knew  myself  in  danger.  To-day  it  is  given  to  me  to 
pay  my  debt.  And  I  save  you.  Give  me  your  arm 
again,  kind,  beloved  friend,  and  through  the  hot  con- 
tamination of  these  streets,  as  once  through  the  pure 
snow,  bring  me  to  honourable  shelter." 

For  a  second,  the  unexpected  check,  the  unlooked- 


Broken  Sanctuary  329 

for  strength  of  her  resistance,  kept  him  silent.  Then 
gently,  as  if  to  an  unreasonable  child  :  — 

"And  to  what  shelter?     Poor  Diana!" 

Her  smile  took  something  of  the  divine,  maternal 
pity  which  lurks  in  every  good  woman's  heart  for 
the  man  she  loves. 

"But  a  stone's  throw  from  this  place,  my  dear 
lord, — her  Majesty's  House  of  the  Blue  Nuns  will 
not  refuse  to  open  its  doors  to  me,  —  as,  indeed,  I 
should  have  minded  me  sooner." 

She  rose,  and  moved  steadily  toward  the  door, 
striving  to  seem  as  though  she  had  no  fear  of  his 
arresting  her.  But  before  she  had  time  to  raise 
the  latch,  his  clasp  of  iron  was  on  her  v/rist. 

A  cry  rising  from  the  street  drove  them  apart  like 
a  sword :  — 

"Father  — father!" 

They  looked  at  each  other  with  starting  eyes, 
blanched  cheeks.     Then  the  cry  rose  again  :  — 

"My  lord,  —  my  Lord  Rockhurst !  —  father*  are 
you  within?" 

The  colour  rushed  back  to  Diana's  face ;  a  flame 
of  joy  leaped  to  her  eye. 

'This  is  no  spirit-call,  but  good  human  sound. 
Harry,  honest  Harry  here !  —  Ah,  my  lord,  in  time 
to  save  us  !" 


330  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

The  revulsion  of  feeling,  the  unconscious  admis- 
sion of  her  words,  a  fierce  flame  of  insane  jealousy, 
suddenly  kindled  by  the  glad  note  in  her  voice, 
broke  down  the  last  shred  of  Rockhurst 's  self-con- 
trol.    His  passion  escaped  him,  tigerish :  — 

"By  the  Lord  God  of  Heaven  or  the  Devil  Lord  of 
Hell,  thou  shalt  not  go  to  him!" 

The  young  voice  was  uplifted  again  without. 

"Knock  once  more,  Robin;  I  hear  stirring 
within." 

And  a  lusty  shout  succeeded :  ■ — 

"Ho,  Chitterley,  'tis  I,  Robin,  with  Master  Harry 
Rockhurst!" 

Rockhurst  caught  Diana  in  his  arms. 

"Mine,  Diana,  mine,  and  none  shall  come  between 
us!" 

He  held  her  for  a  second  against  his  breast,  and 
she  heard  the  great  hammering  of  his  heart ;  then 
she  found  herself  thrust  within  a  darkened  room, 
heafd  the  door  close  upon  her,  the  shooting  of  a  bolt. 
A  prisoner  —  and  darkness  all  about  her,  a  strange 
suffocating  darkness,  thick  with  the  fumes  of  a  burnt- 
out  lamp. 

As  the  Lord  Constable  unbolted  the  outer  door, 
he  was  met  by  the  precipitate  entrance  of  his  son. 


Broken  Sanctuary  331 

"  Good    heavens,     Chitterley  -  The    broken 

words  were  cut  short:  "My  lord  .  .  .  yourself  in 
person  !     Thank  God,  thank  God  !" 

Young  Rockhurst  cast  himself  impetuously  upon 
his  father's  breast,  sobbing  with  excitement.  The 
latter  suffered  the  embrace  in  silence,  supported  the 
boy,  as  he  clung  to  him  in  sudden  weakness,  into  the 
room,  led  him  to  a  chair.  Then  he  stood  a  second 
in  gloomy  silence,  staring  at  the  young  bowed  figure, 
sitting  where  she  had  sat,  his  face  hidden  in  his 
hands,  even  as  hers  had  been.  Tears  !  and  this 
weakling  would  wed  Diana  !  —  Diana,  who  had  not 
suffered  hers  to  fall !  Yet  Rockhurst  loved  his  son ; 
and  there  was  a  strange  rending  pain  at  his  heart. 

Into  the  oppressive  stillness,  broken  only  by 
Harry's  catching  breath,  there  came  from  the  inner 
room  a  stir  as  of  curtains  wrenched  apart,  as  of 
creaking  casements  thrust  open ;  and  next  a  stifled 
cry.  Rockhurst,  expecting  the  instant  of  revelation, 
braced  himself  as  a  man  may  for  the  meeting  of  his 
death-stroke.  But  nothing  more  was  heard,  save 
a  long,  sweet  whistle  —  some  call  in  the  street, 
doubtless.  Ah  —  Diana  would  not  betray  him  !  — ■ 
Diana  loved  him !  As  if  the  shrill,  sweet 
signal  had  roused  him,  Harry  Rockhurst  started, 
dashed  the  tears  from  his  cheeks,  and  rising,  seized 


332  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

his  father's  hand  to  pour  forth  a  torrent  of 
words :  — 

"Alas,  my  lord,  and  how  had  you  the  heart  to  leave 
me  in  this  ignorance  of  your  peril?  —  Had  not  Lionel 
writ  to  me  —  Oh,  father,  never  look  so  sternly  on 
me  !  I  know  I  have  transgressed  your  command 
to  remain  in  the  country,  but  how  could  I  keep  away  ? 
'Twas  not  in  nature —  Where  is  Diana?  Oh, 
my  God,  Chillingburgh  House  is  deserted,  the  doors 
open  to  the  winds,  the  old  lady  abandoned,  dead, 
stark  in  her  chair !  Where  is  Diana  ?  Father  — 
my  Diana!" 

His  voice  rose  to  a  scream,  as  his  father  turned  a 
terrible,  set  face  upon  him ;  his  father,  from  whom 
he  had  scarce  ever  known  but  loving  and  joyful  looks. 
Evil  beyond  words  must  be  the  tidings  awaiting  him. 
He  clutched  his  breast  with  both  hands. 

"Harry,  be  a  man!"  cried  Rockhurst,  starting  as 
he  marked  the  livid  change  that  spread  over  the  young 
countenance.     But  he  was  too  late. 

"Dead?"  cried  the  lad,  and  on  a  sudden  gasped 
for  breath.  "A  curse  on  this  wound  that  will 
not  heal." 

He  tore  at  the  lapels  of  his  riding-coat,  reeled  and 
fell,  barely  caught,  into  his  father's  arms. 

"  My  God  —  I  have  killed  my  son  ! "     Blood  willed 


Broken  Sanctuary  333 

out  between  Rockhurst's  fingers,  as  he  clasped  the 
slight,  inert  form. 

"Harry!"  he  cried  frantically  to  the  deaf  ears, 
"Harry,  no,  she  is  not  dead.  She  is  not  dead  !  You 
shall  even  see  her  !  —  Hither,  Diana  !" 

He  raised  a  loud  call  for  her ;  then,  with  a  groan, 
remembered  him  —  the  shot  bolt !  Had  ever  a 
man  been  so  mad,  had  ever  a  man  been  so  base  — 
been  so  punished?  He  lowered  the  body  to  the 
ground;  'twas  the  old  wound  indeed,  that  wound 
taken  in  the  defence  of  his  father's  honour.  A  light 
word  had  been  spoken  of  him  to  his  son  —  his  poor 
country  lad,  who  had  never  heard,  had  never  known, 
of  one  in  the  town  nicknamed  the  Rakehell ! 

Again  he  raised  a  desperate  cry  for  help  :  — 

"Robin,  there  without  .  .  .  !" 

And  all  at  once  the  silent,  abandoned  house  was 
full  of  voices  and  footsteps  —  here  were  the  white 
face  of  his  own  old  servant ;  the  scared  chubbiness 
of  Yorkshire  Robin  —  and  another  countenance, 
unknown  and  solemn.  And  behold,  Chitterley  was 
saying :  — 

"This  way,  good  doctor  !" 

When  the  moment  holds  life  and  death  in  the 
balance,  there  is  no  room  for  surprise. 

"Chitterley,    ha,    Chitterley,"    cried    Rockhurst. 


334  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Water  and  bandages,  in  Heaven's  name!  This 
way,  Sir  Physician!  —  A  physician  by  Divine 
mercy !" 

The  man  of  healing,  who  had  been  much  occu- 
pied with  his  pomander,  dropped  it  from  his  nostrils 
to  stare  on  the  unexpected  scene.  And  Chitterley, 
whose  dim  eyes  had  only  just  become  aware  of  his 
master,  burst  into  a  dismal  wail :  — 

"My  lord,  fly  !  —  Here  is  'plague,  here  is  death  !" 
Then,  in  yet  more  piercing  lamentation:  "What! 
Master  Harry,  too!     Merciful  Heaven!" 

"Sir,"  said  Rockhurst  to  the  physician,  "your 
attention  hither !" 

"Truly,"  said  the  doctor,  "this  seems  an  urgent 


case." 


He  was  perhaps  not  displeased  to  find,  instead  of 
the  plague-stricken  patient  he  had  been  summoned 
to  attend,  a  clean  lad  a-bleeding  of  a  sword  wound. 
Old  Chitterley  ran  feebly  hither  and  thither,  as  father 
and  surgeon  bent  together  over  the  unconscious 
form.     Robin  stared,  voiceless. 

"It  is  an  old  wound,  ill-healed,"  explained  Rock- 
hurst. "My  faithful  son  —  he  fought,  a  month 
agone,  one  who  impugned  my  good  name  —  now, 
hearing  I  was  in  danger  of  the  sickness,  naught  could 
keep  him  from  me.     All  the  way  from  Yorkshire  .  .  . 


Broken  Sanctuary  335 

and  he  wasted  with  the  fever  of  the  hurt !  When 
I  saw  him  I  chid  him."  The  father  looked  with 
dry  eyes  of  agony  at  the  physician's  thoughtful 
face. 

"The  bleeding  has  somewhat  waned,"  said  the 
latter,  then,  without  committing  himself.  Then,  ris- 
ing stiffly  from  his  knees:  "I  could  attend  to  the 
young  gentleman  better,"  he  pursued,  "were  he  upon 
a  couch.     May  I  assist  your  lordship — ?" 

He  had  recognised  the  noble  Lord  Constable,  the 
King's  friend,  and  was  full  of  solicitude. 

"Nay  —  I  need  no  aid  !"  The  father  gathered  his 
boy  again  into  his  arms.  "Chitterley,  unbolt  the 
door  —  How  now  !"  The  old  man  had  flung  him- 
self before  his  master  and,  with  clasped  hands,  was 
motioning  him  desperately  back.  "The  wretch 
has  gone   crazy!" 

"Nay,  my  dear  master,  in  God's  name,  she  lies 
there!" 

"She?" 

For  one  mad  instant  Rockhurst  deemed  his  an- 
cient servant  stood  at  bay  before  his  own  threatened 
honour.  Almost  >  he  laughed  in  scornful  anger. 
What  recked  he  now  of  aught  except  this  bleeding 
burden  on  his  breast  ?  Aye,  and  if  those  purple  lids, 
sealed  in  such  death-like  peace,  were  to  unclose,  and 


336  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Harry  were  to  behold  Diana,  the  father  knew — and 
was  pierced  as  by  a  two-edged  sword  of  ruth  and 
tenderness  at  the  thought  —  that  yet  his  son  would 
never  doubt  him.  Chitterley  was  still  speaking. 
The  tale  of  retribution  was  not  complete :  — 

"The  French  lady,  your  lordship,  sick  of  the 
plague !  She  lies  wTithin,  dying  of  the  sickness. 
'Twas  for  her  I  sought  Mr.  Burbage.  ..." 

Rockhurst  staggered,  as  one  struck  from  an  un- 
expected quarter.  In  haste  the  physician  advanced, 
but  just  in  time  to  seize  the  limp  body  from  the 
father's  relaxing  grasp.  Here  were  strange  events, 
enough  to  bewilder  the  ordinary,  decorous  man  of 
science  on  his  professional  round  !  But,  as  times 
went,  astonishment  had  no  part  in  men's  lives. 
Catastrophe  had  ceased  to  shock.  The  Lord  Con- 
stable and  his  servant,  either  or  both,  might  be  mad : 
few  people  were  quite  sane  these  days,  but  here  was 
a  young  life  hanging  on  a  thread :  enough  for  the 
moment,  if  skill  of  his  could  strengthen  its  hold. 
As  for  the  creature  with  the  plague  yonder,  —  who- 
ever she  might  be,  —  let  her  rot :  'twas  only  one  added 
to  the  ten  thousand  bound  to  die  that  day  !  He  laid 
the  lad  all  his  length  on  the  floor,  drew  a  phial  of 
cordial  from  his  breast,  and  set  dazed  Robin  to  bring 
him  the  water  from  the  table ;  while  Rockhurst  stood 


Broken  Sanctuary  337 

staring  at  Chitterley,  his  face  more    stricken   than 
that   pallid  one  at  his  feet. 

The  old  servant,  on  his  side,  still  stretched  out 
trembling  arms  in  barrier ;  it  seemed  as  if  his  mind 
had  stopped  on  that  effort  of  desperate  warning.  At 
last,  tonelessly,  Rockhurst  spoke  :  — 

"In  my  room  — ?" 

"Aye,  my  lord.  She  was  dying;  I  could  not  keep 
her  out!" 

"Sick  of  the  plague,  said  you?" 

"Aye,  your  lordship." 

The  father  gave  a  terrible  cry :  — 

"O  God,  Thy  vengeance  is  greater  than  my  sin  — 
Diana!" 

He  looked  down  at  the  physician,  absorbed  in  in- 
effectual efforts  to  recall  the  wandering  spirit  to  its 
fair  young  body ;  and  in  a  voice  that  smote  even  that 
ear,  so  fully  seasoned  to  sorrow's  plaint :  — 

"Sir  —  so  has  Heaven  dealt  with  me  this  day,  that 
if  I  must  needs  hear  now  that  he  is  dead  —  my  only 
son  .  .  .  'twould  be  the  best  tidings  ...  in  very 
truth!" 


THE    RED    DESOLATION 


THE    RED    DESOLATION 


THE    WATCHERS 

"I  have  seen  many  terrible  sights  in  my  life,  Master 
Chitterley, —  none  so  terrible  as  this." 

Thus  old  Martin  Bracy,  Sergeant-Yeoman  of  the 
Tower  of  London,  to  the  Lord  Constable's  body- 
servant. 

His  companion  flung  up  trembling  hands  for  all 
response.  As  old  as  the  sergeant  —  whose  head 
had  grown  white  in  the  King's  service  :  at  home  in  the 
civil  wars,  abroad  in  Charles's  regiment  of  Flanders 
—  but  of  less  solid  metal,  years  had  stricken  him 
harder,  and  he  had  little  breath  to  spare  after  his 
grievous  ascent  to  the  platform  of  the  Beauchamp 
Tower.  And  as  the  two  now  stood,  side  by  side, 
looking  down  from  the  great  height  over  the  stricken 
city,  they  might  have  served  as  types,  one  of  green  old 
age,  the  other  of  wintry  senility. 

The  scene  outspread  below  them  was  indeed  such 

34i 


342  "  M y  Merry  Rockhurst" 

as  to  strike  awe  to  the  stoutest  heart.  It  was  the 
fifth  of  September,  third  day  of  the  great  fire; 
and  nothing,  it  seemed,  was  like  to  arrest  the  spread 
of  the  red  desolation  until  it  had  embraced  the  whole 
of  the  town. 

Under  the  canopy  of  black  smoke,  like  some  mon- 
ster of  nightmare,  the  fire  crouched,  spread,  uncoiled 
itself ;  now  it  clapped  ragged  wings  of  flame  high  into 
the  sky,  now  grasped  new,  unexpected  quarters  as 
with  a  stealthily  outreached  claw.  The  wind  ran 
lightly  from  the  east,  so  that,  in  cruel  contrast,  the 
sky  was  fair  blue  over  their  heads,  while  to  the  west- 
ward horizon  it  spread  ensanguined,  overhung  with 
lurid  clouds. 

"If  hell  itself  had  broken  open,"  said  Martin 
Bracy,  "and  were  vomiting  yonder,  methinks  it 
would  scarce  show  us  a  more  affrighting  picture. 
Often  these  days,  Master  Chitterley,  I  have  taken  to 
minding  me  again  of  the  Crop-Heads'  sayings  —  and 
I  had  a  surfeit  of  them  in  my  days  of  imprisonment, 
forever  talking  of  Judgment !  Aye,  I  would  have 
my  laugh  at  them,  then.  But  now  it  comes  back  to 
me:  — 

"  '  First  the  scourge  of  Plague;  and  thereafter  (that  is  now) 
the  scourge  of  Fire!"' 


The  Red  Desolation  343 

He  mused  as  the  aged  will,  speaking  his  thought 
aloud :  — 

"  There  was  one  Jedediah  Groggins  —  Smite- 
Them-Hip-and-Thigh  was  the  name  he  gave  him- 
self, but  Smit'em-Grogs  they  used  to  call  him  (aye, 
and  a  smiter  he  was !)  —  who  had  charge  of  the 
jail  at  York,  where  I  was  caged  awhile,  ye  wot,  after 
Marston  Moor — " 

Chitterley  nodded  his  palsied  head ;  his  faded  eyes 
looked  out  with  scarce  a  flicker  of  comprehension  on 
the  present  vision  that  so  impressed  the  soldier ;  but 
his  brain  was  still  to  be  stirred  by  memories  of  the 
past. 

"Marston  Moor  .  .  .  aye!  'Twas  at  Marston 
my  Lord  Rockhurst  took  the  pike-push  in  his  thigh 
—  and  he  and  I  in  hiding  long  days  after  in  a  burnt- 
out  farm-house  on  the  wolds.  Scarce  bite  or  sup  had 
I  for  him.  And  he  fretting  for  the  death  of  his  gal- 
lant friend,  Sir  Paul  Farrant,  killed  at  his  side  — 
Aye,  aye,  good  Sir  Paul  — " 

The  sergeant's  gaze  was  still  roaming  out  to  where 
the  great  heart  of  the  city  throbbed  in  agony. 

'"  There  went  up  a  smoke  in  his  wrath  and  a  fire 
flamed  forth  from  his  face,'  he  went  on.  "Truly,  I 
mind  me,  that  was  one  of  this  Jedediah's  favourite 
texts.     Yes  —  I  had    my  laugh  at    it    then :    little 


344  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

thought  I  I  should  ever  see  it  come  true,  as  I  have 
done  these  days  !  .  .  .  I  was  young  then,  and  made 
mock  of  such  things.  But,  sure,  the  sins  of  this 
land  began  with  the  Crop-Heads  themselves,  when 
they  took  up  arms  against  his  sacred  Majesty."  He 
raised  his  hand  to  his  velvet  cap.  "But  they  were 
right  in  this,  friend  Chitterley :  the  wrath  of  the  Lord 
is  an  awful  thing.  —  Hark  ye  at  that !" 

A  dull  explosion  had  rent  the  air.  A  belching 
column  of  white  smoke,  fringed  with  black,  sprang  up 
at  the  extremity  of  the  fiery  picture.  The  sergeant 
moved  to  the  corner  of  the  parapet  to  peer  forth :  — 

"See  yonder  .  .  .  our  lads  at  work  !  Blowing  up 
houses  ahead  of  the  fire.  Aye,  truly,  Master  Chit- 
terley, I  would  his  lordship  had  let  me  take  the  mining 
party  to-day.  But  one  would  think  —  in  all  respect 
—  there  was  a  very  devil  in  him,  since  this  outbreak 
began.  'Tis  ever  to  the  hottest  with  him.  And  the 
men  must  after  him,  though  the  flames  be  as  greedy  as 
hell's.  —  'Tis  hard  on  a  soldier,"  added  the  old  cam- 
paigner, with  a  philosophic  sigh,  "  to  be  driven  to  burn 
before  his  time  !" 

The  other's  clouded  perception  caught  but  the 
hint  of  danger  to  a  beloved  master. 

"His  lordship?"  he  cried ;  " and  whither  went  he 
to-day,  Sergeant?" 


The  Red  Desolation  345 

"Toward  Bishopsgate.  See,  where  I  point; 
there,  where  'tis  like  looking  upon  a  pit  of  fire." 

Chitterley  curved  his  withered  hands  over  his  eyes 
and  strove  to  fix  them  in  the  direction  indicated. 

"God  save  him,"  he  muttered. 

"Amen,"  echoed  Bracy  earnestly,  "for  he  carries 
those  white  hairs  of  his  whither  he  would  scarce  have 
ventured  his  raven  locks !  'Tis  beyond  all  reason. 
Aye,  and  Master  Harry  with  him.  .  .  .  Lord,  Lord, 
how  it  doth  burn  !" 

Bracy  seated  himself  upon  the  sill  of  an  embrasure, 
and  drawing  a  stump  of  pipe  from  his  pocket,  pro- 
ceeded to  strike  flint  and  kindle  the  tabaco,  with  all 
the  old  soldier's  habit  of  making  the  most  of  a  spare 
hour  of  rest.  The  other  remained  standing;  for- 
lorn, pathetic  figure  enough,  beaten  about  by  the 
light  wind  that  flapped  the  skirts  of  his  coat  against 
the  wasted  limbs  and  set  sparse  strands  of  white  hair 
dancing  as  in  mockery  about  his  skull. 

Sergeant  Bracy  rolled  another  text  upon  his  tongue 
as  two  or  three  fresh  explosions,  closely  following  each 
other,  shocked  even  the  mighty  masonry  of  the 
Tower :  — 

" 'The  earth  shook  and  trembled,  because  He  was 
angry  with  them.'  Aye,  'twould  seem  to  fit  in  singu- 
larly !  —  Yet,  as  you  and  I  know,  'tis  but  our  men  at 


346  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

work  of  salvage.  They  must  even  destroy  to  save  !  — 
There  went  the  last  house  in  Shoreditch  ! "  He  made 
a  gesture  with  his  pipe-stem.  "Ha,  now  the  Hall 
falls  upon  itself  like  a  house  of  cards !  .  .  .  Pray 
Heaven  none  of  our  boys  be  caught  beneath  the  drop- 
ping masonry,  as  was  honest  Corporal  Tulip  yester- 
eve !  'Tis  no  marvel  to  me,  Master  Chitterley,"  he 
went  on,  settling  himself  more  comfortably  on  his 
narrow  seat,  "that  the  men  like  not  the  work.  Nay, 
were  it  with  other  than  my  Lord  Constable,  or  young 
Harry — or  one  such  as  I  am,  Master  Chitterley  —  we 
might  well  expect  a  show  of  rebellion  among  them. 
To  see  death,  you  may  say,  be  soldier's  life, — aye,  give 
death,  lay  siege,  waste,  burn  and  slay,  —  all  in  the 
way  of  glorious  war,  friend  Chitterley,  and  service  of 
King  —  wholesome  heat  of  blood  to  keep  the  horrors 
off —  But  this  business,  there  is  neither  glory  nor 
plunder  in  it.  No  —  no,  I've  seen  sour  looks  and 
lagging  feet,  as  much  as  dare  be,  at  least,  under  my 
lord's  eye  or  Master  Harry's." 

"My  lord  —  Master  Harry — "  repeated  Chit- 
terley, as  in  a  kind  of  dream.  "Do  not  mock  me, 
sergeant,  but  there  be  days  now  when  I  scarce  know 
them  apart  .  .  .  remembering  ...     Or  rather — " 

"Aye,"  interrupted  the  soldier,  good-humoured, 
yet  impatient  of  the  other's  maundering,  "I  catch 


The  Red  Desolation  347 

your  meaning.  Young  Master  Harry  that  was  a  boy 
has  grown  marvellous  quick  a  man  these  troublous 
times.  'Tis  his  gallant  father  all  over  again  as  you 
and  I  knew  him.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  my  Lord 
Constable  is  changed  —  oh,  damnably  changed  ! 
An  old  man  in  one  year  !  —  Hark  in  your  ear  !  'Tis 
never  plague  horrors,  nor  fire  horrors,  that  have 
worked  on  him  so  sorely;  'tis  the  mind,  Master 
Chitterley.     Trouble  of  the  mind  !" 

He  tapped  his  forehead  with  the  pipe-stem,  nodded 
his  head,  and  thereafter  puffed  awhile  in  sagacious 
meditation. 

"In  faith,"  said  Chitterley,  with  piteous  trembling 
of  the  lip,  "my  dear  lord's  hair  has  grown  as  white 
as  mine  own." 

"Ah,  it  is  trouble  changes  a  man,"  pursued  the 
sergeant,  presently.  He  cast  a  look  of  kindly  pity  at 
Chitterley.  "And  in  sooth,  poor  soul,"  muttered  he 
under  his  breath,  "who  should  prove  it  better  than 
yourself,  who  have  been  a  doddering  poor  wight  ever 
since  yon  fearful  morning  when  Master  Harry  was 
like  to  die  of  his  reopened  wound  and  my  lord  to  go 
mad  —  and  plague  in  the  very  house?  —  Aye,  aye," 
his  voice  waxed  loud  again,  "shall  I  ever  forget  the 
hour  when  you  all  came  back  to  the  Tower,  and  none 
knew  if  the  lad  was  not  dead  already  ?     'Twas  then 


348  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

the  Lord  Constable's  hair  began  to  turn  white." 
He  gave  a  kind  of  sniff,  his  teeth  clenched  on  the 
pipe,  and  touched  Chitterley  on  the  arm  to  call  back 
his  wandering  attention.  "  I  was  on  guard,  man,  the 
day  his  Majesty  returned  to  the  city  (upon  the  sub- 
sidence of  the  great  sickness),  and  I  was  present  at  the 
first  meeting  between  him  and  the  Lord  Constable. 
His  Majesty  did  not  know  him  I" 

He  emphasised  each  word  of  this  last  remarkable 
statement  by  a  separate  tap  of  the  pipe-bowl  upon  his 
open  palm. 

Chitterley  turned  troubled  eyes  upon  him. 

"His  Majesty  hath  ever  had  great  love  for  my  lord," 
he  protested. 

"He — did — not — know — him,"  repeated  Sergeant 
Bracy,  scanning  his  words.  "I  was  as  near  his 
Majesty  as  I  am  to  you.  —  'What,'  says  the  King, 
staring,  '  this  is  never  my  merry  Rockhurst  ? '  — 
'Always  your  Majesty's  devoted  servant,'  says  my 
lord,  bowing  that  white  head,  'but  your  merry  Rock- 
hurst never  again.'  '  Oh,  damn  !'  says  his  Majesty. — 
Ho,  ho,  ho  !    I  heard  him  with  these  ears  !" 

There  was  no  smile  on  old  Chitterley's  lips.  It 
was  a  question  whether  he  followed  his  more  sturdy 
comrade's  gossip  or  whether,  in  the  dimness  of  his 
mind,  he  was  only  aware  of  the  pity  of  many  things. 


The  Red  Desolation  349 

"Aye,  in  truth,  and  as  you  say,"  the  yeoman  went 
on  after  a  while,  "Master  Harry  hath  changed  even 
as  much  as  his  father.  Faith,  'twas  but  a  lad  when 
we  laid  him  on  his  bed  here ;  he  rose  from  it  a  man. 
Sooth,  Death's  a  grim  teacher  !  I've  seen  many  a  boy 
soldier  turned  to  a  man  by  a  single  battle.  —  But 
there's  secret  trouble  there,  too.  .  .  .  Pity  that  so 
gallant  a  youth  should  ever  wear  so  sober  a  brow ! 
Again  a  word  in  your  ear,  Master  Chitterley : 
They  say  a  lady  was  lost  in  the  plague  days,  none 
knowing  where  or  how  she  died  —  is  it  true?" 

Chitterley  drew  back  and  flung  a  cunning  glance 
at  the  genial,  inquisitive  countenance.  Old?  None 
so  old  yet,  nor  so  foolish,  that  he  would  betray  his 
master's  secret ! 

"Aye,  the  plague!  the  plague!"  he  mumbled. 
"As  you  say,  good  sergeant  —  those  were  terrible 
times." 

"Sho  !"  said  the  sergeant ;  knock;  i  the  ashes  of 
his  pipe  with  an  irritable  tap  and  turned  his  keen  blue 
eyes  out  once  more  to  the  red  westward  glare.  Even 
at  that  instant  there  rose  from  the  gateway  tower  the 
blare  of  a  trumpet,  the  roll  of  drums.  The  sounds 
caught  up  and  repeated  from  different  quarters. 

"God  be  praised,"  said  he;  "'tis  the  party  home 
again  from  the  work!" 


35<d  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Back  went  the  pipe  into  Sergeant  Bracy's  pocket. 
He  drew  himself  from  his  seat ;  fell,  unconsciously, 
once  more  into  military  bearing,  and  made  for  the 
stairs  to  seek  his  officer.  Chitterley  followed,  stirred 
into  a  fleeting  return  of  energy. 


II 

THE   TESTAMENT 

The  Lord  Constable  halted  on  the  first  platform 
and  flung  from  his  head  the  hat  with  the  singed 
plumes.  His  son  looked  at  him  in  some  anxiety: 
he  had  felt  his  father's  hand  press  ever  more  heavily 
on  his  shoulder  as  they  came  up  the  winding  steps. 
Between  the  ash-powdered  white  locks,  the  hand- 
some face  struck  him  as  more  than  usually  drawn 
and  pallid. 

"A  cup  of  wine  for  his  lordship,  Chitterley. — 
Haste  !"  cried  he. 

Rockhurst  staggered  slightly  and  sank  down  upon 
a  stone  bench;  then  looked  up  at  his  son  and 
smiled. 

"Tis  but  a  passing  giddiness.  All  thanks,  good 
lad!" 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  smile  was  succeeded  by  a 
heavy  sigh.  Scarce  twenty-two,  and  his  boy  to  wear 
so  careworn  a  countenance  !  But  a  year  ago,  before 
their  great  trouble,  he  had  tenderly  mocked  the  boy 

35* 


352  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

for  his  over-youthfulness  .  .  .  !  Here  was  a  man 
with  sad,  haunted  eyes,  and  features  set  with  silent 
endurance  of  pain.  And  all  the  boyhood  that  had 
been  the  father's  delight  was  lost  forever. 

"  'Tis  as  if  the  patience  of  God  were  worn  out," 
he  went  on,  as  though  speaking  to  himself,  after  a 
while,  during  which  he  had  gazed  wistfully  at  the  dis- 
tant conflagration.  "Well  for  those  who  can  say  in 
their  heart  that  no  sin  of  theirs  has  cried  aloud  for 
vengeance." 

And  again  the  heavy  sigh  escaped  his  lips. 

The  anxiety  grew  deeper  in  Harry  Rockhurst's 
eyes ;  he  took  the  cup  of  wine  from  Chitterley's  hand 
(half  crazed  his  fellow-retainers  deemed  him,  but 
alert  enough  still  in  all  that  concerned  his  master's 
service) : — 

"Drink,  my  lord,"  said  he,  "you  need  it.  Human 
strength  will  not  bear  more  of  the  work  you  have 
done  to-day  .  .  .  indeed,  all  these  days!" 

But  Rockhurst's  eyes  having  fallen  upon  Chit- 
terley,  he  beckoned  him  to  his  side  before  lifting  the 
wine  to  his  lips.  Full  of  secret  importance,  the  old 
servant  hurried  to  him. 

Harry  drew  back.  In  many  ways  he  felt  as  if  his 
father  still  treated  him  like  a  child;  in  none  more 
than  these  secret  interviews  with  Chitterley.     The 


The  Red  Desolation  353 

Lord  Constable  seemed  to  make  his  servant  sole 
confidant  and  instrument  in  the  matter  of  some  ur- 
gent and  troublous  private  business;  one  which 
necessitated  frequent  absences  on  both  sides.  The 
secrecy  pained  the  young  man,  but  he  bore  the  slight 
in  silence;  he  had  not  been  brought  up  to  question 
the  parental  actions. 

"Didst  go  where  I  bade  thee?"  whispered  Rock- 
hurst. 

"Aye,  my  lord." 

"No  news?" 

"No  news,  no  news!" 

Rockhurst  sat  awhile,  moodily  gazing  on  the  red 
of  the  wine.  Rousing  himself  at  last,  he  drank 
wearily,  handed  the  empty  cup  to  the  old  man  and, 
with  a  wave  of  the  hand,  dismissed  him.  Then  he 
sat  awhile  longer  yet,  watching  his  son  —  There 
were  those  who  said  that  my  Lord  Rockhurst 's  eyes 
could  look  at  naught  else,  when  his  heir  was  by  him. 
Harry  was  engaged  in  receiving  the  sergeant  yeoman's 
report.  The  father  did  not  speak  till  he  saw  Bracy 
salute  and  withdraw.     Then  he  lifted  his  voice :  — 

"Harry!" 

The  young  man  started,  and  in  an  instant  was  by 
his  father's  side.     There  was  something  of  womanly 

2A 


354  "  My  Merry  Rockhursl  " 

solicitude  in  his  air.  'Twas  a  vast  pity  (the  soldiers 
said  among  themselves)  to  see  a  young  man  so  set 
upon  an  old  one!  —  " Clean  against  nature,"  Cor- 
poral Tulip  had  vowed,  whose  own  amorous  heart 
was  now  ashes  beneath  the  ashes  of  the  Thames 
Street  Hall,  while  his  sweetheart  already  thought  of 
walking  o'  sunsets  with  Anspessade  Strongitharm. 

Rockhurst  rose  and  placed  his  hand  on  his  son's 
shoulder.  The  two  looked  affectionately  into  each 
other's  eyes:  sad  men  both,  and  deadly  worn  this 
evening  hour  after  the  fierce  work  of  the  day. 

"Harry,  it  is  borne  in  on  me  that  not  many  days 
will  be  given  us  of  company  together  thus — " 

"How,  my  lord  —  would  you  wish  me  from  you 
again?" 

"Nay  —  this  time,  Harry,  it  will  be  thy  father  who 
leaves  thee." 

The  young  man  started.  Look  and  tone  left  no 
doubt  of  the  meaning  of  the  words. 

"Ah,  father,"  he  cried,  with  the  irritability  born  of 
keen  anxiety;  "if  you  would  but  listen  to  me  !  In- 
deed you  expose  yourself  unduly  — " 

"When  death  threatens  from  without,  a  man 
may  smile  at  it.  But  when  death  knocks  from 
within,  Harry,  thrice  fool  who  does  not  hearken!" 

"Sir,  you  alarm  me."    Harry's  voice  shook.     "Oh, 


The  Red  Desolation  355 

I  have  been  blind !  Your  white  hairs,  your  altered 
demeanour,  are  sure  signs  of  suffering  —  some  hid- 
den sickness  I" 

"  Even  so,  lad.  Sickness  incurable  !  A  secret  pain 
that  gives  no  rest,  night  nor  day.  Nay,  nay,  Harry, 
no  physician  can  avail,  no  remedy  ease — " 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  the  son  in  bitter  accents,  "now  I 
understand  much.  You  have  never  given  me  your 
confidence,  yet  methinks  I  might  have  been  as  true 
to  help  you  in  your  need,  as  wise  in  my  devotion  to 
advise,  as  old  Chitterley.  This  sickness  is  the  secret 
between  you.  'Tis  for  physician  or  remedy  that 
Chitterley  journeys  forth  daily  in  such  mystery  while 
you  toil.  Can  you  not  see,  my  lord,  that  to  be  shut 
out  from  your  counsel  has  but  added  deeper  grief  to 
me  ?  And  methinks  that  I  might  have  proved  as  true 
to  help,  as  wise  to  counsel,  as  yonder  old  man.  .  .  . 
But  it  has  always  been  your  pleasure  to  treat  me  as 
a  child." 

Rockhurst  fixed  deep  eyes  of  melancholy  on  his 
son. 

"  My  illness  is  not  of  the  body,  Harry ;  it  is  of  the 
mind.  But  the  canker  works,  never  ceasing,  eats 
from  soul  to  flesh." 

"You  speak  in  riddles,  sir." 

"Alas!    you  shall  read  my  riddle  soon  enough. 


356  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Hast  ever  heard  —  thou  canst  never  have  known  it 
—  of  that  sickness  of  the  spirit  which  is  called  .  .  . 
remorse?  In  sooth,  'tis  uglier  than  the  pesti- 
lence." 

At  the  look  of  sudden  fear  his  son  cast  upon  him 
the  Lord  Constable  laughed,  —  a  laugh  sadder  than 
tears. 

"Sit  you  down  with  me,  Harry,  and  listen;  for  I 
have  much  to  tell  you,  and  it  is,  as  I  said,  borne  in 
upon  me  that  it  must  be  told  now." 

The  young  man  obeyed  in  silence ;  but  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two  neither  spoke. 

The  western  sky  before  them  had  become  an  image 
of  flaming  immensity,  almost  beyond  the  power  of 
realisation.  Glow  of  sunset  mingled  with  glow  of 
fire  and  painted  the  volutes  of  smoke  massed  on  the 
horizon  with  every  shade  of  fierce  magnificence  and 
lurid  threat. 

"  'Twould  seem  as  if  the  whole  town  were  doomed," 
muttered  Rockhurst  at  last. 

"The  powers  of  hell  let  loose  upon  us,"  said  his 
son,  gloomily. 

"Say,  rather,  my  son,  the  wrath  of  God!  Look 
at  me,  lad  !  The  last  time,  perchance,  that  you  will 
look  upon  your  father's  face  with  love  and  reverence." 

Words  froze  on  the  young  man's  lips.     The  Lord 


The  Red  Desolation  357 

Constable  folded  his  arms;  his  voice  grew  stern, 
ironic :  — 

"  You  believe  me  —  do  you  not  ?  —  a  sober,  godly 
gentleman,  as  true  to  his  duty  as  Christian  as  he  has 
been  to  his  king  as  subject  — " 

"Indeed,  my  lord,  I  know  you  as  such,"  quickly 
interrupted  Harry,  in  deep  offence. 

"Aye,  Harry,  aye,"  laughed  Rockhurst,  bitterly, 
"I  had  but  one  part  to  act  toward  thee,  and  it  seems 
I  did  it  well !  —  I  never  let  thee  know  but  the  father 
in  me,  the  stern  yet  loving  father."  His  voice  sud- 
denly broke  on  a  note  of  tenderness.  "Nay,  never 
doubt  that,  whatever  else  you  may  come  to  doubt : 
I  loved  you  well.  You  were  my  delight  —  My  son, 
you've  had  a  sore  heart  against  me  many  a  time  for 
that  I  treated  you,  in  sooth,  as  a  child,  kept  you  far 
from  me,  in  the  country;  that  I  so  sternly  forbade 
you  the  town  and  the  life  of  the  Court.  Even  now 
you  have  the  plaint  that  you  are  excluded  from  my 
counsel.  Well,  such  as  I  planned,  I  have  made  thee. 
Where  I  have  failed  in  life,  thou  art  strong.  Thou 
hast  kept  thy  manhood  pure  and  clean,  where  thy 
father  rioted,  wasted  — " 

"  Gracious  heavens  !  my  lord  !  What  words  are 
these?" 

"Ah,  'tis  not  the  sound  man  that  praises  the  glory 


358  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

of  health,  but  the  sick.  Not  the  sober  Christian  sees 
the  full  radiance  of  the  jewel  of  purity,  but  the  liber- 
tine. I  never  let  thee  guess  that  here,  in  this  town, 
now  dissolving  in  fire,  I  had  won  me  the  name  of 
Rakehell  Rockhurst." 

With  paling  cheek  and  a  starting  eye,  the  son  had 
listened.  Now  he  winced  as  if  his  father  had  struck 
him. 

"Rakehell  Rockhurst  — ■  Rakehell !  And  I  smote 
Lionel  Ratcliffe  on  the  mouth  for  daring  to  couple 
the  name  to  yours  — • !"  Then,  on  a  fierce  revulsion 
of  feeling,  he  caught  the  pale  hand  close  to  him  and 
kissed  it  passionately.  "Wherefore  tell  me  this? 
Father,  as  I  have  ever  known  you,  so  must  I  ever  love 
and  honour  you." 

"The  Rakehell  — "  repeated  the  Lord  Constable; 
and  once  more,  out  of  the  very  pain  of  his  avowal, 
came  harshness  into  his  tone  — ■  "  that  was  my 
name  in  men's  mouths.  His  Majesty  had  another, 
a  kinder  one,  for  me ;  he  called  me  in  jest  his  merry 
Rockhurst.  You  have  been  reared  in  ripe  veneration 
of  the  King's  Grace ;  yet,  had  you  known  life  by  my 
side  (as  once  you  yearned),  you  would  have  learned 
that  the  one  name  and  the  other  meant,  in  White- 
hall, at  least,  the  same  thing.  Rakehell  —  aye,  I 
may  have  had  black  perdition  in  my  heart  many  a 


The  Red  Desolation  359 

time ;  yet  believe  this,  Harry,  that  when  like  Lucifer 
I  fell,  I  sinned  like  Lucifer  with  pride,  arrogance, 
recklessness,  what  you  will  —  never  with  baseness. 
Merry,  my  good  liege  called  me.  To  find  me  so 
mad,  yet  see  me  wear  so  grave  a  face,  it  gave  him  a 
spur  to  laughter.  Merry?  Nay;  he  loved  me,  in 
chief,  because  in  his  sad  heart  he  knew  mine.  Both 
sad  hearts,  sickened  of  life.  Forever  striving  to 
find  a  blossom  in  the  dust,  a  jest  in  the  weary  round, 
to  taste  of  a  fruit  that  was  not  ashes  on  the  tongue. 
And  there  you  have  the  secret  of  my  life  and  his.  .  .  . 
Then  came  Diana." 

"Ah,  hush,  my  lord  !"  Harry  rose  from  his  seat, 
in  violent  agitation,  and  stood  a  second,  pressing 
his  hands  against  his  breast.  "With  me,  you  know, 
wounds  heal  slowly,"  he  went  on,  striving  to  speak 
calmly.  "Do  not  touch  upon  that  hurt,  lest  the 
bleeding  begin  afresh." 

The  father  rose,  too,  followed  his  son  to  the  para- 
pet, and,  again  laying  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
compelled  his  attention.  The  splendour  of  the  sun- 
set pageant  had  faded,  and  with  it  all  beauty  from  the 
sky.  Only  the  glow,  the  gloom,  the  belching  smoke 
remained. 

"I  knew  her  ere  ever  you  did,"  said  the  Lord 
Constable,  his  eye  fixed  as  upon  an  inner  vision,  fair 


360  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

and  fresh  and  pure.  "Aye,  you  never  knew  it. 
She  spoke  not  of  it  again,  nor  did  I ;  for  you  had  come 
between  us !  .  .  .  She  entered  into  my  life  one 
winter's  night ;  and  across  the  snow  I  set  her  again 
on  her  sheltered  way,  knowing  what  I  was  —  and 
seeing  what  she  was.  But  from  the  instant  of  our 
parting  ('twas  all  in  the  snow,  lad,  and  above  us  a 
sky  of  stars ;  scarce  I  touched  her  hand ;  not  a  word 
.  exchanged  but  a  God  be  wi'  ye),  from  that  instant  she 
was  never  from  my  thoughts —  She,  the  might-have- 
been,  the  one  woman  for  me  !  Aye,  you  stare,  your 
grave  father  !  Your  old  father  !  I  was  a  strong  man, 
then,  and  life  ran  potent  in  my  veins.  Dost  remem- 
ber howl  met  her  again,  in  the  Peacock  Walk  at  home, 
and  you  prating  of  your  love  for  her,  with  beardless 
lip?" 

"Oh,  father,  father,  father!"  cried  the  poor  lad. 
"For  God's  sake!  .  .  .     You  are  all  I  have  left!" 

"Hush!  Look  on  these  white  hairs,  sign  among 
so  many  that  life  has  done  with  me.  Nay,  I  know 
full  well  I  am  not  old  in  years,  scarce  double  thine 
own ;  but  the  vital  spring  is  dying.  Listen,  Harry, 
you  are  a  man;  I  have  a  trust  to  lay  upon  you.  Since 
that  terrible  dawn,  when,  crying  out, '  Diana's  dead  !' 
you  fell,  bleeding  of  your  old  wound,  into  swoon 
upon  swoon,  and  thereafter  into  mortal  sickness,  you 


The  Red  Desolation  361 

know  her  name  has  never  passed  your  lips  nor  mine. 
It  was  better,  in  sooth,  you  should  believe  her  dead." 

The  young  man  caught  at  the  parapet  behind  him 
for  support;  and  the  sweat  broke  on  the  father's 
brow  as  he  looked  at  him.  There  was  a  tense  si- 
lence.    Then,  fiercely,  Harry  Rockhurst  said:  — 

"Now,  my  lord,  you  must  speak!" 

A  moment  longer  Rockhurst  kept  silence.  Curious 
reversal  of  the  wheel  of  fate  !  Here  stood  he,  who 
had  always  been  as  a  god  to  his  son,  now  as  one  in 
the  dock  before  his  judge.  He,  Rockhurst,  whose 
will  the  King  himself  could  not  bend,  ordered  to 
speech;  and  because  of  his  own  just  mind,  just 
through  all  injustice  wrought,  unresentful  —  aye, 
submissive.  The  moment  of  agony  of  a  little  while 
ago  had  passed. 

Already  it  seemed  to  him  the  things  of  life  were 
receding  so  quickly  that  he  looked  on  them  from 
afar.  Passion  had  gone  from  his  voice  as  he  spoke ; 
only  a  mighty  sadness  was  left. 

"It  was  even  to  speak,  Harry,  that  I  kept  thee  by 
me  here.  Know,  then,  that  until  the  night  of  Lady 
Chillingburgh's  death, — the  night  which  found 
Diana  without  a  shelter,  —  in  my  daily  intercourse 
with  your  promised  bride  the  father  was  ever  stronger 


362  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst ' 

in  me  than  the  man.  Aye,  and  when  her  brother  fled 
from  the  plague-stricken  house  and  there  was  none 
but  me  to  protect  her  (for  her  kinsman  Lionel  was, 
as  thou  hast  good  cause  to  know,  my  poor  wounded 
boy,  no  guardian  for  thy  bride)  'twas  as  a  father  I 
cared  for  her  all  through  the  livelong  night  as  we 
wandered,  vainly  seeking  a  refuge.  I  brought  her  at 
length  to  my  house,  and  went  forth  to  seek  the  means 
of  conveying  her  home.  That  was  even  the  very 
morning  of  your  arrival.  Alack,  nor  horse  nor  man 
could  fugitive  then  find  in  the  waste  of  the  doomed 
city  !  I  came  back  to  her.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  son,  before 
you  judge  me,  remember :  men  knew  not  what  they 
did  those  terrible  days.  Question  any  who  passed 
through  them.  Staid  citizens  became  drunken  rep- 
robates, greybeards  rioted  horribly  with  the  mad- 
ness of  youth,  priests  denied  their  God  — " 

"But  Diana,  Diana—" 

"Aye,  Diana  !  I  deemed  Fate  itself  had  given  her 
to  me.  The  madness  of  the  horror  about  me  had 
turned  my  brain.  Madness  of  my  love  for  her,  of  my 
long  self-denial !  I  would  have  wedded  her,  even  that 
hour.  But  she,  she  had  yielded  her  troth  to  thee 
...  to  thy  father  she  gave  her  scorn  !  At  that  most 
cursed  moment  thy  voice  rose  from  the  street,  thou, 
my  son  whom  I  deemed  far  away,  in  the  heart  of  the 


The  Red  Desolation  363 

country  !  I  would  have  killed  her  rather  than  yield 
her.  Remember,  I  was  mad.  I  thrust  her  from  thy 
sight  into  an  inner  room.     Ah,  God,  in  that  room  !" 

" In  that  room?" 

"The  plague  lay  in  wait  for  her." 

"The  plague  — " 

"Unknown  to  me  one  lay  there,  a  woman  who  had 
crept  in,  sick  —  to  die  !" 

Harry  gave  a  deep  groan,  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands,  and  fell  upon  the  bench. 

"Whilst  I  lay  raving,  did  she  die  of  the  plague, 
there,  in  your  room?     O  my  Diana!" 

"My  son,  I  know  not.  When  I  sought  for  her  she 
was  gone,  vanished.  The  window  was  opened  into 
the  garden.     The  woman  lay  dead  upon  the  bed." 

Harry  sprang  to  his  feet,  clapped  his  hands  to- 
gether in  a  sudden  agony  of  joy,  more  dreadful  at 
that  moment  than  all  his  sorrow  to  the  father's  eyes. 

"She  escaped?  She  may  be  living  yet !  There  is 
mercy  in  heaven  !" 

"No  mercy  for  such  as  I  —  nor  for  thee,  being  my 
son.  For  my  moment's  madness,  what  retribution ! 
Harry,  this  whole  long  year  I  have  looked  for  her, 
night  and  day.  There  is  not  a  corner  of  the  town  we 
have  not  scoured,  old  Chitterley  and  myself.  Aye, 
that  was  the  mystery  you  fretted  not  to  share!" 


364  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

Harry  looked  at  his  father  speechlessly,  with  fierce 
dry  eyes. 

"Alas!"  Rockhurst  went  on  stonily,  "she  must 
even  be  dead,  stricken  by  the  contagion  —  fallen 
at  the  street  corner  perchance,  swept  into  the 
common  pit  as  so  many  others!  And  yet,  if  she 
were  not  dead —  There  is  not  a  burning  house 
I  pass  but  I  fear  she  may  be  in  the  flames.  Food 
is  as  ashes,  drink  as  gall  upon  my  tongue.  And 
now,  with  the  presage  of  death  upon  me,  I  lay 
the  hideous  burden  upon  thee,  my  son,  my  inno- 
cent son!" 

He  stretched  his  hand.  But,  drawing  back,  the 
latter  turned  a  red  glance  upon  him. 

"And  you  let  me  believe  her  dead  that  morning  — 
that  morning  !  I  could  have  saved  her  !"  He  flung 
his  arms  in  the  air  and  shook  them ;  a  terrible  menace 
on  his  face. 

"God!"   he  called,  "God  —  !" 

Rockhurst  gave  a  loud  cry  :  — 

"My  son,  do  not  curse  your  father!" 

The  young  man's  arms  dropped  by  his  side.  He 
looked  at  the  bent  white  head,  at  the  countenance 
worn,  wan,  patient ;  then  he  cast  himself  upon  his 
father's  breast,  sobbing :  — 

"God  help  us  all!" 


Harry  gave  a  deep    groan,  covered  his  face  with    his  hands,  and 

fell  upon  the  bench. 


The  Red  Desolation  365 

Night  was  falling  apace.  Father  and  son  sat  to- 
gether over  the  supper  table.  The  meal,  such  as  it 
was,  was  over ;  each  had  made  a  pretence  at  eating, 
lest  he  add  to  the  other's  burden.  In  silence  Harry's 
eyes  ever  sought  his  father,  striving  to  reconcile  the 
man  he  had  known  and  reverenced  above  all  man- 
hood with  the  man  who  had  harmed  him  to  the 
shattering  of  his  life.  Yet  he  could  now  find  nothing 
in  his  heart  but  a  deeper  tenderness.  Nay,  as  he 
gazed  at  the  noble  silvered  head,  the  countenance, 
beautiful,  diaphanous,  it  was  with  no  jot  of  reverence 
abated,  rather  a  kind  of  awe  added  to  a  climbing 
apprehension.  His  own  words  of  that  terrible  mo- 
ment of  revelation  rang  in  his  ears  as  a  tolling  bell : 
' '  Father !     You  are  all  I  have  left  I ' ' 

At  last  he  rose  and  went  restlessly  to  the  open 
window.  When  he  looked  up,  there  was  the  pure 
sky  overhead  with  a  star  or  two,  very  peaceful ; 
and  when  he  looked  forth  between  the  towers,  there 
raged  the  flames,  yonder  hung  the  murk  the  blacker 
for  the  fire  lurid  below.  It  seemed  an  image  of  his 
own  life. 

"At  least  there  can  be  peace,"  he  told  himself. 

The  door  opened  behind  him;  he  heard  Chitter- 
ley's  shuffling  feet,  and  next  the  quavering  voice; 


366  "  My  Merry  Rockkurst  " 

but,  lost  in  his  contemplation,  he  never  turned  his 
head. 

"Harry  !"  came  Lord  Rockhurst's  voice  of  a  sud- 
den. 

The  young  man  leaped  at  his  tone.  Rockhurst 
thrust  a  crumpled  sheet  into  his  hand. 

"Read  it,  Harry!  A  messenger  has  brought  it, 
hotfoot,  and  is  gone  as  he  came." 

As  he  spoke,  the  Lord  Constable  strode  to  the  door. 

"Ho  there  !"  he  called  to  the  sentinel  in  the  pas- 
sage. "Call  out  the  guard!  Have  the  assembly 
sounded !" 

His  voice  rang  out,  clarion  clear.  Harry,  holding 
the  paper,  stared,  astounded ;  the  old  fire  had  come 
back  to  his  father's  eye,  the  old  life  to  his  step ;  under 
the  very  whiteness  of  his  locks  his  face  looked  young 
again. 

"Read,  lad,  read!"  ordered  Rockhurst,  "and  be 
in  readiness." 

His  step  was  already  clanking  down  the  stone 
stairs  ere  his  son,  hurrying  to  the  window,  could  read 
the  sheet  in  the  waning  light.  Then  a  great  cry 
broke  from  the  young  man:    "Diana!     Diana!" 

"My  lord  (so  ran  the  hasty  writing  on  the  note), 
"  the  convent  of  St.  Helen's,  Bishopgate,  within  where 


The  Red  Desolation  367 

my  kinswoman,  Madam  Anastasia  Bcdingfield,  has 
given  me  shelter,  though  none  of  her  faith,  is  even 
now  attacked  by  the  rabble ;  and  we  are  in  par- 
lous danger.  Send  succour,  as  you  still  remember 
poor  Diana !" 

From  below  was  heard  the  roll  of  drum ;  then  the 
tramp  of  feet  and  the  clank  of  firelock.  And  over 
all  the  Lord  Constable's  voice  :  — 

"Steady,  lads,  and  haste.  We've  urgent  work 
to-night!" 

Hurriedly  Harry  set  out  to  join  them.  His  knees 
trembled  as  he  went.  He  thought,  in  the  confusion 
of  his  mind  :  My  father  goeth  like  a  young  man  again 
to  the  rescue,  and  I  like  an  old  one.  What  will 
happen  between  us  when  we  see  Diana  again? 


Ill 

THE   LAST   COMMAND 

Ten  frightened  ladies,  of  various  ages  and  come- 
liness, were  gathered  round  the  Mother  Abbess  in  the 
great  stone  refectory  of  St.  Helen's  House.  Queen 
Catherine's  convent  —  removed  since  the  subsidence 
of  the  great  sickness  from  its  original  home  in  St. 
Martin's  Lane  — ■  was  thus  far  outside  the  track  of 
the  fire,  yet  the  "Blue  Nuns"  jostled  one  another 
like  so  many  frightened  children,  each  in  the  en- 
deavour to  get  the  closer  to  the  large,  firm  comfort  of 
her  presence.  Adown  the  long  table,  between  the 
platters  of  untouched  food,  burned  the  four  candles 
in  high  brazen  candlesticks,  scantily  illumining  the 
room. 

The  atmosphere  was  oppressively  close,  for  all  the 
windows  were  shuttered  and  barred.  And,  save  for 
the  whimpering  of  some  of  the  nuns,  the  mouthing 
prayerful  whispers  of  others,  there  was  a  heavy  still- 
ness within,  in  contrast  to  the  sounds  that  beat  round 
the  walls  without :  the  voice  of  a  mob  in  a  fury. 

368 


The  Red  Desolation  369 

A  husky  roar  it  was,  that  grew  and  fell  like  the 
waves  of  the  sea.  Anon  a  deep  shout  or  a  shrill  cry, 
a  shot  or  a  clang,  pierced  high;  anon  the  thunder 
of  blows  at  the  main  doors,  echoing  through  the  old 
house. 

As  a  knock  angrier  than  the  rest  shook  the  very 
foundations,  the  women  raised  a  wail.  Madam 
Anastasia,  the  Abbess,  looked  round  them,  a  certain 
twist  of  humour  belying  the  sternness  of  her  face. 

"O  mother,  mother !"  shrilly  lamented  the  young- 
est novice,  " shall  we  all  be  murdered?" 

"Well,  and  what  of  that?"  quoth  the  stout 
daughter  of  the  Bedingfields.  "  Do  we  not  lay  down 
our  lives,  in  taking  convent  vows?  —  Fie,  child, 
Mary  Veronica  !"  Her  steady  tones  began  to  domi- 
nate the  thin  plaints.  "And  you,  clamouring  as  you 
were,  but  a  week  ago,  to  be  one  of  the  faithful  vir- 
gins!  Daughters,  is  this  our  faith?  And,  besides, 
are  we  not  under  her  Majesty's  special  protection, 
and  help  sent  for  ?  To  the  chapel  with  ye,  and  sing 
complines.  Tut !  Have  I  given  permission  to  break 
the  rules?     'Tis  past  the  hour.     Off  with  ye!" 

She  rose,  hustling  them  with  gestures  of  her  great 
hanging  sleeves,  in  good-humoured  yet  irresistible 
authority.  Not  one  attempted  protest,  though  the 
smallest  novice  halted  on  the  threshold  to  fling  a 

2B 


37o  "  My  Merry  Rockhursl  " 

supplicating  look  which  begged  piteously  for  the 
shelter  of  the  motherly  skirts.  But  the  kind  steel- 
grey  eye  was  relentless ;  and,  shivering,  the  neophyte 
pattered  after  her  sisters. 

Madam  Anastasia  watched  them  depart  with  a 
shrug  of  her  ample  shoulders.  Then  as  she  stood, 
in  deep  reflection,  by  the  open  door,  hearkening  to 
the  increasing  menace,  there  came  the  faint  tinkle 
of  the  chapel  bell ;  and  thereafter  the  uplifted  voices 
of  her  nuns  chanting,  dismally  enough,  but  yet 
sufficiently  in  unison.  She  nodded  to  herself,  with 
a  shrewd  smile,  and  was  about  to  gather  her  long 
blue  skirts  together,  preparatory  to  a  survey  of 
the  defences,  when  there  came  the  sound  of  steps 
along  the  flags  and  the  figure  of  the  convent  guest 
moved  into  her  view.  The  Abbess's  face  bright- 
ened. 

"Hither,  child  !"  she  beckoned,  as  Mistress  Diana 
Harcourt,  bowing  her  veiled  head,  was  about  to  pass 
on  to  the  chapel. 

The  young  woman  approached,  flinging  back  the 
folds  from  her  face.  Against  the  black  filmy  frame, 
her  hair,  even  in  the  dimness  of  the  corridor,  took 
marvellous  brightness  as  of  copper  and  gold.  Her 
countenance  shone  with  a  pearl-like  fairness;  it 
was  wan,  as  by  long  vigils ;    sad  were  her  eyes,  as 


The  Red  Desolation  371 

though  from  secret  tears ;  but  serenity  enveloped  her 
as  fragrance  does  the  rose. 

Her  kinswoman  surveyed  her  an  instant  with 
favour.  Then  she  plunged  into  her  huge  hanging 
pocket. 

"This  letter,  flung  in  through  a  window,  tied  to  a 
stone ;  I  had  nigh  forgotten  it !  'Tis  addressed  to 
you.  Had  you  been  of  my  flock,  'twas  my  duty  to 
have  read  it." 

Diana  glanced  at  the  superscription,  announced 
coldly  that  it  was  from  their  kinsman,  Lionel  Rat- 
cliff  e,  and  proceeded  to  burst  the  seal.  But  the  colour 
welled  to  her  pale  cheeks,  and  she  gave  a  cry  of  indig- 
nation as  she  read :  — 

"A  man's  patience  is  not  eternal.  You  have  for- 
bidden me  sight  of  you,  this  month  past.  My 
offence  — ■  the  constancy  of  my  love  !  You  will  not, 
so  you  tell  me,  out  of  your  papist  cage.  Yester-eve 
our  kinswoman  threatened  me  that  you  would  change 
your  religion  and  take  the  vows.  You  have  reck- 
oned without  me,  without  the  anger  of  the  people. 
'Tis  the  cry  that  the  papists  have  fired  London;  I 
care  not,  false  or  true.  But  no  papist  shall  help  to 
rob  me  of  you  !  Here  is  my  chance,  and  I  shall  seize 
it.  I  saved  you  once,  in  spite  of  yourself;  now, 
Diana,  I  shall  save  you  again  from  yourself.     Have 


372  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

no  fear,  though  every  stone  in  the  walls  that  keep 
you  from  me  be  laid  low,  no  harm  shall  come  to  you. 
I  shall  be  there,  and  with  friends.  So  you  are 
warned ;  be  wise,  bid  our  obstinate  old  Coz  Anas- 
tasia  yield  you  peacefully,  unbar  the  doors,  facilitate 
the  search  for  the  papers  we  come  to  seek,  and  I  will 
even  do  still  what  may  be  done  for  her  safety  and  that 
of  all  her  silly  pack. 

"If  this  findeth  you  open  to  reason,  see  that  she 
hang  a  white  cloth  from  the  window  over  the  porch, 
and  soon  after  unbar  the  gate.  And  leave  the  rest 
to  your  faithful  and  ever-loving  cousin, 

"Lionel  Ratcliffe." 

"  And  he  of  our  blood  !  Shame  ! "  cried  the  Abbess, 
with  hot  cheeks. 

"Mother,"  said  Diana,  and  her  lip  trembled  in 
spite  of  her  brave  tone,  "had  you  not  best  yield, 
even  as  he  says  ?  Alack !  'tis  by  bringing  peril  on 
you  I  repay  your  shelter  !" 

"Yield  you  up?  A  pretty  thought!  I  would 
rather  we  all  perished  together  'neath  the  stones  of 
the  old  house.  Yield  and  facilitate,  forsooth  !  Nay, 
we  will  even  hold  the  place  bolt  and  bar.  An  our 
message  have  reached  the  Tower,  'twill  go  hard 
with  us  if  the  gates  do  not  stand  till  succour  comes. 


The  Red  Desolation  373 

How,  hand  thee  over  to  yon  infamous  wretch,  who 
useth  the  extremity  of  the  city,  the  blind  folly  of  the 
mob,  the  helplessness  of  a  poor  house  of  gentle- 
women, to  the  furthering  of  his  own  base  purposes ! 
As  for  my  threat  that  you  would  take  the  vows,"  — 
she  gave  a  dry  chuckle, — "I've  overshot  the  mark,  it 
seems.  I  deemed  to  show  thee  as  out  of  reach  of  his 
pursuit.  Well,  'tis  ill  talking  when  so  much  is  a-do- 
ing.  Hark  ye  at  that,  'tis  the  fiercest  onslaught  yet. 
Get  thee  to  the  chapel.     I  must  to  the  outer  hall." 

"Nay,"  quoth  Diana,  "I  go  with  you." 

The  two  kinswomen  looked  at  each  other  for  a 
second  with  a  mutual  pride ;  then,  without  further 
word,  they  went  together  to  the  great  outer  hall, 
reverberating  now  to  its  vaulted  roof  as  hammer 
strokes  fell  upon  the  iron-studded  door. 

The  stolid,  elderly  red-headed  porter  came  forth 
from  a  deep  embrasure,  —  where  he  had  been 
philosophically,  it  seemed,  listening  to  the  progress 
of  the  attack, — and  with  a  hand  on  each  arm  drew 
them  in  their  turn  into  the  shelter  out  of  reach  of 
stone  and  shots. 

"Will  the  door  hold,  think  you,  Bindon?"  asked 
his  reverend  mistress,  briskly. 

"Aye,"  quoth  Bindon,  "good  iron,  stout  oak!  — 
So  they  lay  not  gunpowder." 


374  "  My  Merry  Rock  hurst  " 

"And  so  they  do,  what  then?" 

Bindon  lifted  his  hand  in  slight  but  expressive 
gesture.  Then  his  small  eye  rolled  from  the  old  face 
to  the  young. 

"Eh,  but  ye  be  two  brave  women  —  not  a  blanch, 
not  a  squeak !" 

"Sho!"  said  the  Abbess,  with  a  tolerant  smile. 
"And  why  should  I  fear  death?  Have  I  not  been 
dead  these  forty  years?" 

"And  why  should  I  fear  death,"  said  Diana's 
young  voice,  "since  life  has  naught  left  for  me?" 

"I  hope  you'll  not  be  taken  at  your  word,  ladies," 
said  Bindon,  with  the  familiarity  of  long  service. 
"Nay,  look  you,  I'm  none  so  ready  myself!  But," 
he  went  on,  "I  like  not  this  pause  without:  there 
may  be  gunpowder  in  it.  And  by  your  leave,  I'll 
creep  round  to  the  lookout.  Eh,  'tis  time  the  guards 
should  arrive,  in  faith  !" 

As  his  burly  figure  had  moved  out  of  sight,  Madam 
Anastasia  turned  with  some  asperity  :  — 

"Indeed,  Mistress  Harcourt,  I  marvel  at  you! 
Life  nothing  left  for  you,  forsooth?  Tut,  tut!  Is 
not  the  best  part  of  it  before  you?  What  have  you 
done  with  your  good  youth,  answer  me  that  —  not 
even  borne  a  soul  to  God's  service?" 

"Why,  mother,"  Diana  exclaimed,  and  the  tears 


The  Red  Desolation  375 

sprang  to  her  eyes.  "Do  you  know  my  history, 
and  chide  me?  Oh,  I  am  dead,  and  this  is  my 
tomb.  And  truly,  'tis  best  so ;  since,  when  I  lived 
in  the  world,  I  brought  —  God  knows  unwit- 
tingly —  dire  sorrow  on  two  noble  hearts  that  loved 
me." 

The  Abbess  thrust  her  hands  impatiently  up  her 
big  sleeves. 

"Tush,  child!  Shouldst  have  made  thy  choice 
boldly.  And  he  whom  you  had  left  of  the  two  would 
be  no  worse  off  than  now.  This  shilly-shally  likes 
me  not.  In  a  convent,  and  no  nun  !  A  lovely,  free 
woman,  and  no  wife !  Either  wed  or  pray,  say  I. 
Nay,  my  dear,  though  I  threatened  your  cousin  with 
it,  I  have  known  it  long :  your  vocation  is  not  with  us  ! 
With  the  blessing  of  God,  I'll  yet  give  the  house  a 
feast  on  the  day  of  Mistress  Harcourt's  wedding 
with  my  Lord  Rockhurst's  son  !" 

The  renewal  of  clamour  without,  the  report  of  a 
musket,  the  shattering  of  a  few  more  panes  of  glass 
in  the  high  windows,  all  but  drowned  the  valiant 
woman's  words.  Yet  Diana  had  caught  the  drift 
of  them,  and  clasped  the  stout  shoulders  in  sudden 
embrace. 

"Wedding!  'Tis  more  like  we  feast  with  death 
this  day !" 


376  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"Why,  then,  'tis  the  best  feast  of  all,"  cried  the 
Abbess,  petulantly. 

There  came  three  measured,  emphatic  blows  upon 
the  door.  Then,  above  the  loud,  continuous  howl  of 
the  mob,  a  ringing  call :  — 

"Stand  back,  there  within,  stand  back  for  your 
lives  !     We  now  blow  your  door  in.  —  Stand  back  !" 

"'Tis  Cousin  Lionel's  voice,"  whispered  Diana, 
with  white  lips. 

"Sho!"  returned  the  old  lady,  with  great  con- 
tempt. She  caught  Diana  by  the  shoulder  and 
dragged  her  to  the  entrance  of  the  passage,  where 
she  paused,  panting,  being  somewhat  weighty  for 
such  swift  movements.  Bindon,  trailing  a  musket, 
clattered  in  their  rear. 

"Aye,  truly,"  she  said  to  him,  "I  begin  to  think  this 
may  be  the  end.  Tut !  Where  lag  those  sluggard 
guards?  Sho!  Here  now  come  my  silly  children! 
—  Well,  well,  Sister  Magdalen,  my  pastoral  staff ! 
So  we  have  visitors  we  shall  receive  in  state." 

She  took  the  crook  from  the  hands  of  the  nun; 
then,  waving  back  the  community,  terrified  now  even 
to  speechlessness :  — 

"  Back  to  your  stalls,  daughters  !  Shame  on  you  ! 
Shall  not  the  shepherd  come  when  he  pleases,  and  shall 
he  find  the  sheep  dispersed?  " 


The  Red  Desolation  377 

She  rang  her  staff  threateningly  on  the  flags,  and 
the  fluttering  bevy  fled  back  to  the  chapel.  "Sheep, 
indeed — -poor  things!"    chuckled  the  Abbess. 

She  was  chuckling  still  when  the  thud  of  the  ex- 
plosion came. 

It  seemed  to  lift  the  stone  house  about  them,  to 
make  the  solid  flags  heave  under  their  feet.  For 
one  instant  Diana  deemed  that  they  all  had  been 
blown  in  pieces  as  well  as  the  convent ;  and,  opening 
her  eyes  after  a  reeling  moment,  was  considerably 
astonished  to  find  herself  whole  and  sound.  Before 
her,  in  stout  equilibrium,  was  the  Abbess,  jubilantly 
chanting  a  psalm ;  beside  her,  Bindon  on  one  knee, 
poising  his  firelock.  The  words  he  was  breathing 
were  not  those  of  prayer. 

There  was  a  burst  of  wailing  from  the  chapel 
within.  Through  the  porch  a  wall  of  white  smoke 
rolled  up  in  swirls. 

"They've  made  the  breach;  the  door  is  down," 
said  Bindon,  superfluously. 

The  vapour  parted.  Three  men  were  seen  cau- 
tiously advancing;  beyond  them,  confusedly,  in 
the  ragged  breach,  Diana  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
street  and  a  crowd  of  begrimed  faces,  in  brutal  exul- 
tation, brutal  lust  of  destruction.  Ravening  as 
wild  beasts  behind  bars,  something  yet  seemed  to 


378  "  My  Merry  Rock  hurst  " 

hold  them  back.  The  next  instant,  as  she  recog- 
nised Lionel,  she  knew  whose  power  at  once  excited 
and  restrained  the  mob.  Waving  his  sword,  he  ad- 
vanced, scarce  a  fold  out  of  place  in  his  handsome 
suit,  plumed  hat  on  his  head,  the  red  curls  of  his 
great  wig  hanging  ordered  on  either  side  of  the  long, 
pale  face. 

Their  eyes  met ;  she  saw  the  gleam  in  his,  and  her 
heart  turned  sick.  The  two  that  strode  behind  him 
were  dark-visaged,  sinister  enough,  yet  had  some- 
thing of  the  same  air,  as  of  men  decorously  carrying 
through  a  necessary  act  of  violence. 

Lionel  Ratcliffe  halted  a  pace  in  front  of  his  old 
kinswoman  and  swept  an  ironical  bow.  There  was 
no  flinching  of  shame  in  him  as  he  met  the  stern 
challenge  of  her  eye. 

"Out  of  my  way,  madam,"  he  cried.  "I'm  not 
here  to  deal  with  you.  You've  not  chosen  to  take 
my  warning;  take  your  lot.  My  business  is  with 
my  cousin  here,  whom  you  unlawfully  detain.  — ■ 
Diana,  I  have  seen  to  your  safety." 

He  made  an  almost  imperceptible  gesture  of  his 
hand  as  he  concluded.  The  two  men  darted  for- 
ward. Hideous  confusion  instantly  sprang  up. 
Diana  remembered  (and  afterward  it  was  with  tender 
laughter)  seeing  the  Mother  Abbess  strike  out  right 


The  Red  Desolation  379 

lustily  with  her  pastoral  staff ;  to  such  good  purpose, 
indeed,  that  Lionel's  sword  was  snapped  at  mid- 
blade  as  he  tried  to  parry  her  blow.  At  the  same 
instant  there  was  a  deafening  report  in  her  ear : 
Bindon  had  loosed  his  musket.  The  foremost  of 
Ratcliffe's  attendants  threw  up  his  arms  and  fell 
forward.  Then  she  felt  herself  grasped,  and  knew 
the  hated  touch. 

"Diana,  are  you  mad?"  Lionel  was  whispering 
fiercely.  '"Tis  life  or  death  !  .  .  .  If  you  are  seen 
to  struggle  now,  you,  whom  this  rabble  believes  I 
come  to  rescue  from  the  papists,  you  are  lost,  even 
as  the  others !" 

Through  Lionel's  words  she  was  aware  of  the  wild- 
beast  roar,  execrating :  — 

"Kill  the  papists!  Burn  them!  Fire  the  con- 
vent —  fire  for  fire  !" 

She  was  aware  also  of  the  invisible  bars  broken 
down,  of  the  rush.  And  next,  even  to  her  bewildered 
senses,  there  came  the  feeling  of  a  change,  a  halt. 

It  was  like  a  flood  at  full  tide  miraculously  arrested. 
Shots  followed  each  other  in  rapid  succession  out- 
side ;  and  other  sounds  now,  a  roll  of  drums,  words 
of  command,  some  cheers,  began  to  mingle  with 
those  hideous  recurrent  yells.  The  throng  that 
struggled  to  pour  in  through  the  broken  door  recoiled. 


380  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

"The  guards!  the  guards  are  on  us!"  was  now 
the  cry. 

And  with  the  curious  unanimity  of  crowds  general 
panic  succeeded  general  fury.  Above  the  torrential 
sound  of  feet  on  the  pavement,  a  voice,  clear  yet  pant- 
ing, like  the  blast  of  a  running  trumpeter,  rose  ever 
nearer. 

"Make  way,  in  the  King's  name  !" 

Then  Diana  heard  the  Abbess's  "Deo  gratias" ; 
heard  Lionel  curse  as  his  grasp  relaxed ;  heard  him 
curse  again  as  he  leaped  forward,  brandishing  the 
stump  of  his  sword,  and,  in  vain  frenzy,  striving  to 
stop  the  fugitives. 

Harry  Rockhurst  was  the  first  of  the  rescuers  to 
dash  through  the  gaping  door.  The  Lord  Con- 
stable had  in  truth  reached  the  gateway  before  him, 
but  had  stood  aside  to  let  his  son  pass.  Bare-headed, 
his  black  curls  flying,  his  face  set  with  the  sternness 
of  fierce  intent,  Diana  for  one  delirious  instant  took 
the  son  for  the  father  — ■  the  father  as  she  had  first 
met  him  in  pride  of  noble  strength,  when  she  had 
loved  him,  unbidden.  And  as  he  sprang  toward  her, 
crying  out  in  accents  of  unmeasurable  joy,  "  Diana 
—  safe!"   she  cast  herself  into  his  arms. 

Now,  even  as  he  held  her,  she  knew  who  it  was, 
knew  that  there  was  youth  in  his  pressure,  an  un- 


The  Red  Desolation  381 

hampered  ecstasy  of  leaping  blood.  But  yet  she 
clung  to  him  the  closer,  past  and  present  so  inex- 
tricably mingled  in  her  thought  that  all  she  felt, 
all  she  cared  to  know,  was  that  now,  here,  her  heart 
had  come  home  at  last ! 

The  inner  circle  of  their  joy  lasted  but  the  mo- 
ment of  a  radiant  bubble.  About  them  the  turmoil 
still  raged.  There  was  one,  within  a  few  yards, 
white-haired,  grappling  with  a  furious  blood-stained 
ruffian.     Diana  clutched  her  lover's  arm. 

"Harry,  Harry,  save  the  old  man !" 

Harry  turned,  saw,  and  fired  his  pistol  point- 
blank  in  the  rioter's  face.  In  the  same  instant,  with 
a  horror  that  stifled  the  cry  of  warning  in  her  throat, 
Diana  saw  Lionel,  with  livid  countenance  of  fury, 
advancing  upon  the  young  man,  his  broken  sword 
drawn  back  like  a  dagger  for  the  thrust.  But  even 
as  she  found  voice,  all  was  over:  one  whose  love 
had  been  swifter  than  hers  had  flung  himself  be- 
tween the  steel  and  its  aim.  Then  all  was  a  swirl 
of  confusion.  She  saw  Harry  draw  his  sword  from 
Lionel's  fallen  body,  fling  it  from  him,  and  rush  with 
a  deep  cry  of  anguish  to  the  tall,  white-headed  man 
who  yet  stood  erect,  smiling,  but  with  a  face  of  ter- 
rible pallor. 

She  looked  again ;  and,  as  if  the  blast  of  a  mighty 


382  "  My  Merry  Rockhurst  " 

wind  had  torn  the  mists  from  her  eyes,  she  knew  him. 
The  old  man  she  had  called  him :  it  was  Lord  Rock- 
hurst himself. 

And  now  it  became  clear  to  her  that  he  was 
wounded,  and  grievously.  Though  he  still  stood, 
he  was  supported  on  one  side  by  his  son;  on  the 
other  by  a  grey-bearded  yeoman  who,  seeing  his 
leader  struck,  had  worked  his  way  to  him  with  great 
strides,  through  the  mob  of  soldiers  and  rioters  strug- 
gling at  the  door. 

"Sir,"  he  was  saying,  "this  is  the  weight  of  a  dead 
man." 

"Ah,  no  !"  cried  the  son.  "For  God's  sake,  look 
to  the  wound  !  O  God  !  —  the  sword,  to  the  very 
hilt!" 

Rockhurst  came  back  from  his  far-smiling  contem- 
plation to  forbid  the  hand  that  would  have  plucked 
the  broken  sword  from  his  side. 

"Touch  it  not  yet,  Sergeant  Bracy.  When  you 
draw  it,  you  draw  my  life  with  it." 

"He's  sped,  Master  Harry,"  whispered  Bracy, 
and  his  face  began  to  work. 

Then  Rockhurst  failed  in  their  arms  and  they  gently 
laid  him  down  on  the  flags,  but  a  few  paces  away 
from  Lionel  Ratcliffe's  dead  body.     As  in  a  dream, 


The  Red  Desolation  383 

Diana  came  and  knelt  by  his  side.  Madam  Anas- 
tasia  was  praying  under  her  voice  the  prayer  for 
the  dying:  "...  Remember  not,  O  Lord,  the 
offences  of  thy  servant,  and  take  not  revenge  of  his 
sins.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  father,"  sobbed  Harry,  "the  best, the  dearest ! 
Oh,  my  honoured  lord  !" 

The  dying  man,  as  with  an  effort,  brought  his  far 
gaze  to  the  two  young  faces  bending  in  sorrow  over 
him. 

"It  is  well,"  he  said,  "very  well.  Diana,  lay  your 
hand  in  his.  I  would  fain  place  it  there  myself,  but 
I  cannot,  I  cannot."  His  eye  roamed  as  if  seeking. 
Once  again  he  smiled  at  Bracy's  distraught  coun- 
tenance. 

"Old  comrade,"  he  breathed,  "pluck  out  the 
blade." 

The  Lord  Constable  had  given  his  last  command. 


Mr.  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD'S  NOVELS 

THE  SARACINESCA  SERIES 

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Saracinesca 

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great,  —  that  of  telling  a  perfect  story  in  a  perfect  way,  and  of  giving  a 
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"  A  singularly  powerful  and  beautiful  story. ...  It  fulfils  every  requirement 
of  artistic  fiction.  It  brings  out  what  is  most  impressive  in  human  action, 
without  owing  any  of  its  effectiveness  to  sensationalism  or  artifice.  It  is 
natural,  fluent  in  evolution,  accordant  with  experience,  graphic  in  descrip- 
tion, penetrating  in  analysis,  and  absorbing  in  interest."  —  New  York 
Tribune. 

Don    OrSinO.      A  Sequel  to  "Sant'  llano" 

"  Perhaps  the  cleverest  novel  of  the  year.  .  .  .  There  is  not  a  dull  para- 
graph in  the  book,  and  the  reader  may  be  assured  that  once  begun,  the 
story  of  Don  Orsino  will  fascinate  him  until  its  close." —  The  Critic. 


Taquisara 

"To  Mr.  Crawford's  Roman  novels  belongs  the  supreme  quality  of  uniting 
subtly  drawn  characters  to  a  plot  of  uncommon  interest." — Chicago  Tribune. 

Corleone 

"  Mr.  Crawford  is  the  novelist  born  ...  a  natural  story-teller,  with  wit, 
imagination,  and  insight  added  to  a  varied  and  profound  knowledge  of 
social  life." —  The  Inter-Ocean,  Chicago. 


Casa  BraCClO.      In  two  volumes,  $2.00.     Illustrated  by  A. 
'  Castaigne 
Like  Taquisara  and  Corleone,  it  is  closely  related  in  plot  to  the  fortunes  of 
the  Saracinesca  family. 

"  Mr.  Crawford's  books  have  life,  pathos,  and  insight ;  he  tells  a  dramatic 
Story  with  many  exquisite  touches."  —  New  York  Sun. 


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NOVELS  OF  ROMAN  SOCIAL  LIFE 

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A  Roman  Singer 

"  One  of  the  earliest  and  best  works  of  this  famous  novelist.  .  .  .  None 
but  a  genuine  artist  could  have  made  so  true  a  picture  of  human  life  crossed 
by  human  passions  and  interwoven  with  human  weakness.  It  is  a  perfect 
specimen  of  literary  art."—  The  Newark  Advertiser. 

Marzio's  Crucifix 

"  We  have  repeatedly  had  occasion  to  say  that  Mr.  Crawford  possesses  in 
an  extraordinary  degree  the  art  of  constructing  a  story.  It  is  as  if  it  could 
not  have  been  written  otherwise,  so  naturally  does  the  story  unfold  itself 
and  so  logical  and  consistent  is  the  sequence  of  incident  after  incident  As 
a  story,  Marzw's  Crucifix  is  perfectly  constructed."  —  New  York  Commer- 
cial Advertiser . 

Heart   of   Rome.     A  Tale  of  the  Lost  Water 

"  Mr.  Crawford  has  written  a  story  of  absorbing  interest,  a  story  with  a 
genuine  thrill  in  it;  he  has  drawn  his  characters  with  a  sure  and  brilliant 
touch,  and  he  has  said  many  things  surpassingly  well." — New  York  Times 
Saturday  Review. 

Cecilia.      A  Story  of  Modern  Rome 

"  That  F.  Marion  Crawford  is  a  master  of  mystery  needs  no  new  telling. . . . 
His  latest  novel,  Cecilia,  is  as  weird  as  anything  he  has  done  since  the 
memorable  Mr.  Isaacs.  ...  A  strong,  interesting,  dramatic  story,  with 
the  picturesque  Roman  setting  beautifully  handled  as  only  a  master's  touch 
could  do  it."  —  Philadelphia  Evening  Telegraph. 

Whosoever  Shall  Offend 

"  It  is  a  story  sustained  from  beginning  to  end  by  an  ever  increasing  dra- 
matic quality."  —  New  York  Evening  Post. 

Pietro  Ghisleri 

"  The  imaginative  richness,  the  marvellous  ingenuity  of  plot,  the  power  and 
subtlety  of  the  portrayal  of  character,  the  charm  of  the  romantic  environ- 
ment,—the  entire  atmosphere,  indeed,  — rank  this  novel  at  once  among 
the  great  creations."  —  The  Boston  Budget. 

To  Leeward 

"  The  four  characters  with  whose  fortunes  this  novel  deals,  are,  perhaps, 
the  most  brilliantly  executed  portraits  in  the  whole  of  Mr.  Crawford's  long 
picture  gallery,  while  for  subtle  insight  into  the  springs  of  human  passion 
and  for  swift  dramatic  action  none  of  the  novels  surpasses  this  one."  —  The 
News  and  Courier. 

A  Lady  of  Rome 


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Mr.  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD'S  NOVELS 

Mr.  Crawford  has  no  equal  as  a  writer  of  brilliant  cosmopolitan  fiction,  in 
which  the  characters  really  belong  to  the  chosen  scene  and  the  story  inter- 
est is  strong.     His  novels  possess  atmosphere  in  a  high  degree. 

Mr.   Isaacs  (India) 

Its  scenes  are  laid  in  Simla,  chiefly.  This  is  the  work  which  first  placed 
its  author  among  the  most  brilliant  novelists  of  his  day. 

Greifenstein  (The  Black  Forest) 

"...  Another  notable  contribution  to  the  literature  of  the  day.  It  pos- 
sesses originality  in  its  conception  and  is  a  work  of  unusual  ability.  Its 
interest  is  sustained  to  the  close,  and  it  is  an  advance  even  on  the  previous 
work  of  this  talented  author.  Like  all  Mr.  Crawford's  work,  this  novel  is 
crisp,  clear,  and  vigorous,  and  will  be  read  with  a  great  deal  of  interest."  — 
New  York  Evening  Telegram. 

Zoroaster  (Persia) 

"  It  is  a  drama  in  the  force  of  its  situations  and  in  the  poetry  and  dignity  of 
its  language  ;  but  its  men  and  women  are  not  men  and  women  of  a  play. 
By  the  naturalness  of  their  conversation  and  behavior  they  seem  to  live  and 
lay  hold  of  our  human  sympathy  more  than  the  same  characters  on  a  stage 
could  possibly  do."  —  The  New  York  Times. 

The  Witch  of  Prague  (Bohemia) 

"  A  fantastic  tale"  illustrated  by  W.J.  Hennessy. 

"  The  artistic  skill  with  which  this  extraordinary  story  is  constructed  and 
carried  out  is  admirable  and  delightful. . .  .  Mr.  Crawford  has  scored  a 
decided  triumph,  for  the  interest  of  the  tale  is  sustained  throughout.  .  . . 
A  very  remarkable,  powerful,  and  interesting  story."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

Paul   Patoff  (Constantinople) 

"  Mr.  Crawford  has  a  marked  talent  for  assimilating  local  color,  not  to 
make  mention  of  a  broader  historical  sense.  Even  though  he  may  adopt, 
as  it  is  the  romancer's  right  to  do,  the  extreme  romantic  view  ofhistory.it  is 
always  a  living  and  moving  picture  that  he  evolves  for  us,  varied  and  stir- 
ring." —  New  York  Evening  Post. 

Marietta  (Venice) 

"  No  living  writer  can  surpass  Mr.  Crawford  in  the  construction  of  a  com- 
plicated plot  and  the  skilful  unravelling  of  the  tangled  skein." — Chicago 
Re  cord- Her  aid. 

"  He  has  gone  back  to  the  field  of  his  earlier  triumphs,  and  has,  perhaps, 
scored  the  greatest  triumph  of  them  all."—  New  York  Herald. 


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V  la    CrUClS,      A  Romance  of  the  Second  Crusade.      Illustrated 

by  Louis  Loeb 

"  Via  Crucis  ...  A  tale  of  former  days,  possessing  an  air  of  reality  and  an 
absorbing  interest  such  as  few  writers  since  Scott  have  been  able  to  accom- 
plish when  dealing  with  historical  characters."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

In  the  Palace  of  the  King  (Spain) 

"  In  the  Palace  of  the  King  is  a  masterpiece ;  there  is  a  picturesqueness,  a 
sincerity  which  will  catch  all  readers  in  an  agreeable  storm  of  emotion,  and 
even  leave  a  hardened  reviewer  impressed  and  delighted."  —  Literature, 
London. 

With  the  Immortals 

"  The  strange  central  idea  of  the  story  could  have  occurred  only  to  a  writer 
whose  mind  was  very  sensitive  to  the  current  of  modern  thought  and  prog- 
ress, while  its  execution,  the  setting  it  forth  in  proper  literary  clothing, 
could  be  successfully  attempted  only  by  one  whose  active  literary  ability 
should  be  fully  equalled  by  his  power  of  assimilative  knowledge  both  lit- 
erary and  scientific,  and  no  less  by  his  courage  and  capacity  for  hard  work. 
The  book  will  be  found  to  have  a  fascination  entirely  new  for  the  habitual 
reader  of  novels.  Indeed,  Mr.  Crawford  has  succeeded  in  taking  his  read- 
ers quite  above  the  ordinary  plane  of  novel  interest."  —  Boston  Advertiser. 

Children  of  the  King  (Calabria) 

"  One  of  the  most  artistic  and  exquisitely  finished  pieces  of  work  that 
Crawford  has  produced.  The  picturesque  setting,  Calabria  and  its  sur- 
roundings, the  beautiful  Sorrento  and  the  Gulf  of  Salerno,  with  the  bewitch- 
ing accessories  that  climate,  sea,  and  sky  afford,  give  Mr.  Crawford  rich 
opportunities  to  show  his  rare  descriptive  powers.  As  a  whole  the  book  is 
strong  and  beautiful  through  its  simplicity,  and  ranks  among  the  choicest 
of  the  author's  many  fine  productions."  —  Public  Opinion. 

A  Cigarette  Maker's  Romance  (Munich) 

and   Khaled,  a  Tale  of  Arabia 

"Two  gems  of  subtle  analysis  of  human  passion  and  motive." —  Times. 
"  The  interest  is  unflagging  throughout.  Never  has  Mr.  Crawford  done 
more  brilliant  realistic  work  than  here.  But  his  realism  is  only  the  case 
and  cover  for  those  intense  feelings  which,  placed  under  no  matter  what 
humble  conditions,  produce  the  most  dramatic  and  the  most  tragic  situa- 
tions. .  .  .  This  is  a  secret  of  genius,  to  take  the  most  coarse  and  common 
material,  the  meanest  surroundings,  the  most  sordid  material  prospects, 
and  out  of  the  vehement  passions  which  sometimes  dominate  all  human 
beings  to  build  up  with  these  poor  elements,  scenes  and  passages  the 
dramatic  and  emotional  power  of  which  at  once  enforce  attention  and 
awaken  the  profoundest  interest."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

Fair  Margaret.     A  Portrait 

"  An  exhilarating  romance  .  .  .  alluring  in  its  naturalness  and  grace."  — 
Boston  Herald. 

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Mr.  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD'S  NOVELS 

WITH  SCENES  LAID  IN  ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA 

In  the  binding  of  the  Uniform  Edition 

A  Tale  of  a  Lonely  Parish 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  have  anything  so  perfect  of  its  kind  as  this  brief  and 
vivid  story.  ...  It  is  doubly  a  success,  being  full  of  human  sympathy,  as 
well  as  thoroughly  artistic  in  its  nice  balancing  of  the  unusual  with  the 
commonplace,  the  clever  juxtaposition  of  innocence  and  guilt,  comedy 
and  tragedy,  simplicity  and  intrigue."  —  Critic. 

Dr.    Claudius.      A  True  Story 

The  scene  changes  from  Heidelberg  to  New  York,  and  much  of  the  story 
develops  during  the  ocean  voyage. 

"There  is  a  satisfying  quality  in  Mr.  Crawford's  strong,  vital,  forceful 
stories."  —  Boston  Herald. 

An   American   Politician.        The  scenes  are  laid  in  Boston 

"  It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  the  story  is  skilfully  and  picturesquely  written, 
portraying  sharply  individual  characters  in  well-defined  surroundings."  — 
New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

The  Three  Fates 

"  Mr.  Crawford  has  manifestly  brought  his  best  qualities  as  a  student  of 
human  nature  and  his  finest  resources  as  a  master  of  an  original  and 
picturesque  style  to  bear  upon  this  story.  Taken  for  all  in  all,  it  is  one  of 
the  most  pleasing  of  all  his  productions  in  fiction,  and  it  affords  a  view  of 
certain  phases  of  American,  or  perhaps  we  should  say  of  New  York,  life 
that  have  not  hitherto  been  treated  with  anything  like  the  same  adequacy 
and  felicity."  —  Boston  Beacon. 

Marion  Darche 

"  Full  enough  of  incident  to  have  furnished  material  for  three  or  four 
stories.  ...  A  most  interesting  and  engrossing  book.  Every  page  unfolds 
new  possibilities,  and  the  incidents  multiply  rapidly."  —  Detroit  Free  Press. 
"  We  are  disposed  to  rank  Marion  Darche  as  the  best  of  Mr.  Crawford's 
American  stories." —  The  Literary  World. 

Katharine  Lauderdale 

The   RalstonS.      A  Sequel  to  "Katharine  Lauderdale" 

"  Mr.  Crawford  at  his  best  is  a  great  novelist,  and  in  Katharine  Lauderdale 
we  have  him  at  his  best."  —  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  A  most  admirable  novel,  excellent  in  style,  flashing  with  humor,  and  full 
of  the  ripest  and  wisest  reflections  upon  men  and  women."  —  The  West- 
minster Gazette. 

"  It  is  the  first  time,  we  think,  in  American  fiction  that  any  such  breadth  of 
view  has  shown  itself  in  the  study  of  our  social  framework." —  Life. 


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Mr.  WINSTON  CHURCHILL'S  NOVELS 


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The   Celebrity.      An  Episode 

"  No  such  piece  of  inimitable  comedy  in  a  literary  way  has  appeared  for 
years.  ...     It  is  the  purest,  keenest  fun." —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

Richard  Carvel  illustrated 

"...  In  breadth  of  canvas,  massing  of  dramatic  effect,  depth  of  feeling,  and 
rare  wholesomeness  of  spirit,  it  has  seldom,  if  ever,  been  surpassed  by  an 
American  romance." — Chicago  Tribune. 

The    Crossing  Illustrated 

"  The  Crossing  is  a  thoroughly  interesting  book,  packed  with  exciting 
adventure  and  sentimental  incident,  yet  faithful  to  historical  fact  both  in 
detail  and  in  spirit."  —  The  Dial. 

The   Crisis  Illustrated 

"  It  is  a  charming  love  story,  and  never  loses  its  interest. .  .  .  The  intense 
political  bitterness,  the  intense  patriotism  of  both  parties,  are  shown  under- 
standing^." —  Evening  Telegraph,  Philadelphia. 

Coniston  Illustrated 

"  Coniston  has  a  lighter,  gayer  spirit,  and  a  deeper,  tenderer  touch  than 

Mr.  Churchill  has  ever  achieved  before.  ...  It  is  one  of  the  truest  and  finest 

transcripts  of  modern  American  life  thus  far  achieved  in  our  fiction."  — 
Chicago  Record-Herald. 


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Mr.  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN'S  NOVELS 

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The  Choir  Invisible 

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Lowell,  $2.50 

"  One  reads  the  story  for  the  story's  sake,  and  then  re-reads  the  book  out 
of  pure  delight  in  its  beauty.  The  story  is  American  to  the  very  core.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Allen  stands  to-day  in  the  front  rank  of  American  novelists.  The 
Choir  Invisible  will  solidify  a  reputation  already  established  and  bring  into 
clear  light  his  rare  gifts  as  an  artist.  For  this  latest  story  is  as  genuine  a 
work  of  art  as  has  come  from  an  American  hand."  —  Hamilton  Mabie 
in  The  Outlook. 

The   Reign    of  Law.     A  Tale  of  the  Kentucky  Hempfields 

"  Mr.  Allen  has  a  style  as  original  and  almost  as  perfectly  finished  as  Haw- 
thorne's, and  he  has  also  Hawthorne's  fondness  for  spiritual  suggestion  that 
makes  all  his  stories  rich  in  the  qualities  that  are  lacking  in  so  many  novels 
of  the  period.  .  .  .  If  read  in  the  right  way,  it  cannot  fail  to  add  to  one's 
spiritual  possessions."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

Summer  in  Arcady.    A  Tale  of  Nature 

"  This  story  by  James  Lane  Allen  is  one  of  the  gems  of  the  season.  It  is 
artistic  in  its  setting,  realistic  and  true  to  nature  and  life  in  its  descriptions, 
dramatic,  pathetic,  tragic,  in  its  incidents ;  indeed,  a  veritable  masterpiece 
that  must  become  classic.  It  is  difficult  to  give  an  outline  of  the  story ; 
it  is  one  of  the  stories  which  do  not  outline;  it  must  be  read."  —  Boston 
Daily  Advertiser . 

The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture 

"  It  may  be  that  The  Mettle  of  the  Pasture  will  live  and  become  a  part  of 
our  literature ;  it  certainly  will  live  far  beyond  the  allotted  term  of  present- 
day  fiction.  Our  principal  concern  is  that  it  is  a  notable  novel,  that  it  ranks 
high  in  the  range  of  American  and  English  fiction,  and  that  it  is  worth  the 
reading,  the  re-reading,  and  the  continuous  appreciation  of  those  who  care 
for  modern  literature  at  its  best."  —  By  E.  F.  E.  in  the  Boston  Transcript. 

Shorter  Stories.     Each,  $1.50 
The  Blue  Grass  Region  of  Kentucky 
Flute  and  Violin,  and  Other  Kentucky  Tales 

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A  Kentucky  Cardinal 

Aftermath.      A  Sequel  to  "  A  Kentucky  Cardinal  " 


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Mr.  OWEN  WISTER'S  NOVELS 

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The  Virginian 

"  The  vanished  West  is  made  to  live  again  by  Owen  Wister  in  a  manner 
which  makes  his  book  easily  the  best  that  deals  with  the  cowboy  and  the 
cattle  country.  .  .  .  It  is  picturesque,  racy,  and  above  all  it  is  original."  — 
The  Philadelphia  Press. 

Lady  Baltimore 

"  After  cowboy  stories  innumerable,  The  Virginian  came  as  the  last  and 
definite  word  on  that  romantic  subject  in  our  fiction.  Lady  Baltimore 
will  serve  in  much  the  same  way  as  the  most  subtly  drawn  picture  of  the 
old-world  dignity  of  the  vanished  South."—  The  New  York  Evening  Mail. 


Mr.  EDEN  PHILPOTTS'S  NOVELS 

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The  American  Prisoner  illustrated 

"  Intensely  readable  .  .  .  perfectly  admirable  in  its  elemental  humor  and 
racy  turns  of  speech." — The  Spectator,  London. 

The  Secret  Woman 

"  There  cannot  be  two  opinions  as  to  the  interest  and  the  power  of  The 
Secret  Woman.  It  is  not  only  its  author's  masterpiece,  but  it  is  far  in 
advance  of  anything  he  has  yet  written  — and  that  is  to  give  it  higher  praise 
than  almost  any  other  comparison  with  contemporary  fiction  could  afford." 
—  Times  Saturday  Review. 

Knock  at  a  Venture 

Sketches  of  the  rustic  life  of  Devon,  rich  in  racy,  quaint,  and  humorous 
touches. 

The  Portreeve 


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The  Gospel  of  Freedom 


"A  novel  that  may  truly  be  called  the  greatest  study  of  social  life,  in  a 
broad  and  very  much  up-to-date  sense,  that  has  ever  been  contributed  to 
American  fiction." — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

The  Web  of  Life 

"  It  is  strong  in  that  it  faithfully  depicts  many  phases  of  American  life,  and 
uses  them  to  strengthen  a  web  of  fiction,  which  is  most  artistically  wrought 
out."  —  Buffalo  Express. 

The  Real  World 

"  The  title  of  the  book  has  a  subtle  intention.  It  indicates,  and  is  true  to 
the  verities  in  doing  so,  the  strange  dreamlike  quality  of  life  to  the  man 
who  has  not  yet  fought  his  own  battles,  or  come  into  conscious  possession 
of  his  will  —  only  such  battles  bite  into  the  consciousness." — Chicago 
Tribune. 

The  Common  Lot 

"  It  grips  the  reader  tremendously.  ...  It  is  the  drama  of  a  human  soul 
the  reader  watches  . .  .  the  finest  study  of  human  motive  that  has  appeared 
for  many  a  day."  —  The  World  To-day. 

The  Memoirs  of  an  American  Citizen.     Illustrated 

with  about  fifty  drawings  by  F.  B.  Masters 

"  Mr.  Herrick's  book  is  a  book  among  many,  and  he  comes  nearer  to 
reflecting  a  certain  kind  of  recognizable,  contemporaneous  American  spirit 
than  anybody  has  yet  done."  —  New  York  Times. 

"  Intensely  absorbing  as  a  story,  it  is  also  a  crisp,  vigorous  document  of 
startling  significance.  More  than  any  other  writer  to-day  he  is  giving  us 
the  American  novel."  —  New  York  Globe. 


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The   Call   of  the   Wild  Illustrated  in  colors 

"A  big  story  in  sober  English,  and  with  thorough  art  in  the  construction; 
a  wonderfully  perfect  bit  of  work  ;  a  book  that  will  be  heard  of  long.  The 
dog's  adventures  are  as  exciting  as  any  man's  exploits  could  be,  and  Mr. 
London's  workmanship  is  wholly  satisfying."  —  The  New  York  Sun. 

1  he   Sea- Wolf  Illustrated  in  colors 

"Jack  London's  The  Sea-Wolf  is  marvellously  truthful.  .  .  .  Reading 
it  through  at  a  sitting,  we  have  found  it  poignantly  interesting  ;  .  .  .  a 
superb  piece  of  craftsmanship." —  The  New  York  Tribune. 

White   Fang  Illustrated  in  colors 

"  A  thrilling  story  of  adventure  .  .  .  stirring  indeed  .  .  .  and  it  touches  a 
chord  of  tenderness  that  is  all  too  rare  in  Mr.  London's  work."  —  Record- 
Herald,  Chicago. 

Before   Adam  Illustrated  in  colors 

"The  story  moves  with  a  wonderful  sequence  of  interesting  and  wholly 
credible  events.  The  marve?  of  it  all  is  not  in  the  story  itself,  but  in  the 
audacity  of  the  man  who  undertook  such  a  task  as  the  writing  of  it.  .  .  . 
From  an  artistic  standpoint  the  book  is  an  undoubted  success.  And  it  is 
no  less  a  success  from  the  standpoint  of  the  reader  who  seeks  to  be  enter- 
tained,"—  The  Plain  Dealer,  Cleveland. 


Shorter  Stories 

Children  of  the  Frost  The  Game 

Faith  of  Men  Moon  Face 

Tales  of  the  Fish  Patrol  Love  of  Life 


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Mr.  WILLIAM  STEARNS  DAVIS'S  NOVELS 

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A  Friend  of  Caesar 

"  As  a  story  .  .  .  there  can  be  no  question  of  its  success.  .  .  .  While  the 
beautiful  love  of  Cornelia  and  Drusus  lies  at  the  sound  sweet  heart  of  the 
story,  to  say  so  is  to  give  a  most  meagre  idea  of  the  large  sustained  interest 
of  the  whole.  .  .  .  There  are  many  incidents  so  vivid,  so  brilliant,  that 
they  fix  themselves  in  the  memory." — Nancy  Huston  Banks  in  The 
Bookman. 

"  God   Wills   It."     A  Tale  of  the  First  Crusade.      Illustrated 

by  Louis  Betts 

"  Not  since  Sir  Walter  Scott  cast  his  spell  over  us  with  Ivanhoe,  Count 
Robert  of  Paris,  and  Quentin  Durward  have  we  been  so  completely 
captivated  by  a  story  as  by  'God  Wills  It:  It  grips  the  attention  of  the 
reader  in  the  first  chapter  and  holds  it  till  the  last." —  Christian  Endeavor 
World. 

Falaise  of  the  Blessed  Voice.     A  Tale  of  the  Youth  of 

St.  Louis,  King  of  France 

"  In  this  tale  of  the  youth  of  Louis,  King  of  France  and  afterward  saint  in 
the  calendar  of  the  Catholic  Church,  Mr.  Davis  has  fulfilled  the  promises 
contained  in  A  Friend  of  Ccesar  and  'God  Wills  It.'  The  novel  is  not  only 
interesting  and  written  with  skill  in  the  scenes  which  are  really  dramatic, 
but  it  is  convincing  in  its  character  drawing  and  its  analysis  of  motives." 
—  Evening  Post,  New  York. 

A   Victor   of   Salamis.       A   Tale  of  the    Days  of  Xerxes, 

Leonidas,  and  Themistocles 

"  An  altogether  admirable  picture  of  Hellenic  life  and  Hellenic  ideals.  It 
is  just  such  a  book  as  will  convey  to  the  average  reader  what  is  the  eternal 
value  of  Greek  Life  to  the  world  .  .  .  carried  breathlessly  along  by  a  style 
which  never  poses,  and  yet  is  always  strong  and  dignified.  .  .  .  This 
remarkable  book  takes  its  place  with  the  best  of  historical  fiction.  Those 
who  have  made  their  acquaintance  with  the  characters  in  the  days  of  their 
youth  will  find  delight  in  the  remembrance.  Those  who  would  fain  learn 
something  of  the  golden  days  of  Greece  could  not  do  better  than  use  Mr. 
Davis  for  guide." —  The  Daily  Post,  Liverpool. 

"  It  is  seldom  that  the  London  critics  admit  that  an  American  may  wear 
the  mantle  of  Scott,  but  they  are  declaring  that  this  book  entitles  Mr.  Davis 
to  a  place  among  novelists  not  far  below  the  author  of  The  Talisman." 


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MABEL  OSGOOD  WRIGHT'S  NOVELS,  etc. 

(Published  originally  as  by  '*  Barbara,"  the  Commuter's  wife) 

Each,  in  decorated  cloth  binding,  $1.50 

The   Garden   of  a    Commuter's    Wife,     illustrated 

from  photographs 

"  Reading  it  is  like  having  the  entry  into  a  home  of  the  class  that  is  the 
proudest  product  of  our  land,  a  home  where  love  of  books  and  love  of 
nature  go  hand  in  hand  with  hearty  simple  love  of  '  folks.'  ...  It  is  a 
charming  book."  —  The  Interior. 

People  of  the  Whirlpool  illustrated 

"  The  whole  book  is  delicious,  with  its  wise  and  kindly  humor,  its  just  per- 
spective of  the  true  values  of  things,  its  clever  pen  pictures  of  people  and 
customs,  and  its  healthy  optimism  for  the  great  world  in  general."  —  Phila- 
delphia Evening-  Telegraph. 

The  Woman  Errant 

"  The  book  is  worth  reading.  It  will  cause  discussion.  It  is  an  interesting, 
fictional  presentation  of  an  important  modern  question,  treated  with  fasci- 
nating feminine  adroitness." —  Miss  JEANNETTE  GlLDER  in  The  Chicago 
Tribune. 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Fox 

"  Her  little  pictures  of  country  life  are  fragrant  with  a  genuine  love  of 
nature,  and  there  is  fun  as  genuine  in  her  notes  on  rural  character.  A 
travelling  pieman  is  one  of  her  most  lovable  personages  ;  another  is  Tatters, 
a  dog,  who  is  humanly  winsome  and  wise,  and  will  not  soon  be  forgotten 
by  the  reader  of  this  very  entertaining  book."  —  New  York  Tribune. 


The  Garden,  You  and  I 


"  This  volume  is  simply  the  best  she  has  yet  put  forth,  and  quite  too  deli- 
riously torturing  to  the  reviewer,  whose  only  garden  is  in  Spain.  .  .  .  The 
delightful  humor  which  persuaded  the  earlier  books,  and  without  which 
Barbara  would  not  be  Barbara,  has  lost  nothing  of  its  poignancy,  and 
would  make  The  Garden,  You  and  I  pleasant  reading  even  to  the  man 
who  doesn't  know  a  pink  from  a  phlox  or  a  Daphne  cneorum  from  a 
Cherokee  rose."  —  Congregationalism 


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THE  MERWIN-WEBSTER  NOVELS 

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Calumet    '*  K  "  Illustrated  by  Harry  C.  Edwards 

"  Calumet  'K'  is  a  novel  that  is  exciting  and  absorbing,  but  not  the 
least  bit  sensational.  It  is  the  story  of  a  rush.  .  .  .  The  book  is  an  un- 
usually good  story;  one  that  shows  the  inner  workings  of  the  labor  union, 
and  portrays  men  who  are  the  bone  and  sinew  of  the  earth." —  The  Toledo 
Blade. 

The  Short  Line  War 

"  A  capital  story  of  adventure  in  the  field  of  railroading." —  Outlook. 


Mr.  MARK  LEE  LUTHER'S  NOVELS 

Each,  in  cloth,  decorated  covers,  $1.50 

The  Henchman 

"  It  wins  admiration  on  almost  every  page  by  the  cleverness  of  its  inven- 
tions."—  Churchill  Williams  in  The  Bookman. 

The  Mastery 

"A  story  of  really  notable  power  remarkable  for  its  strength." —  Times. 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  CASTLE'S  NOVELS 

Each,  in  decorated  cloth  binding,  $1.50 
The  Pride  of  Jennico 

"  This  lively  story  has  a  half-historic  flavor  which  adds  to  its  interest  .  .  . 
told  with  an  intensity  of  style  which  almost  takes  away  the  breath  of  the 
reader."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

If  Youth  But  Knew 

"  They  should  be  the  most  delightful  of  comrades,  for  their  writing  is  so 
apt,  so  responsive,  so  joyous,  so  saturated  with  the  promptings  and  the 
glamour  of  spring.  It  is  because  If  Youth  But  Knew  has  all  these  ador- 
able qualities  that  it  is  so  fascinating." —  Cleveland  Leader. 


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Mr.  JOHN  LUTHER  LONG'S  NOVELS,  etc. 

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The  Way  of  the  Gods 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  artistic  quality  of  his  story.  It  rings  true 
with  the  golden  ring  of  chivalry  and  of  woman's  love,  it  rings  true  for  all 
lovers  of  romance,  wherever  they  be,  .  .  .  and  is  told  with  an  art  worthy 
of  the  idea."  —  New  York  Mail. 

Heimweh  and  Other  Stories 

"  As  in  Madam  Butterfly  his  subtle  appreciation  of  love's  tender  mystery 
creates  an  exquisite  thrill  of  'the  heavenly  longing  —  for  the  love  —  the 
loved  ones'  the  one  thing  that  through  poverty  and  age  can  keep  the  door 
open  to  joy."  —  New  York  Times. 


Miss  BEULAH  MARIE  DIX'S  NOVELS,  etc. 

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The  Making  of  Christopher  Ferringham 

"In  brilliancy,  exciting  interest,  and  verisimilitude,  The  Making  of  Chris- 
topher Ferringham  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  semi-historical  novels  of  the 
day,  and  not  unworthy  of  comparison  with  Maurice  Hewlett's  best."  —  Bos- 
ton Advertiser. 

The  Life,  Treason,  and  Death  of  James  Blount 
of  Breckenhow 

"A  novel  that  may  fairly  challenge  comparison  with  the  very  best,  telling 
the  story  of  treason  and  a  love,  of  many  good  fights,  a  few  mistakes,  and  a 
good  death  at  the  last." —  The  Boston  Transcript. 

The  Fair  Maid  of  Greystones 

"  The  plot  of  The  Fair  Maid  of  Greystones  is  not  unworthy  of  Weyman 
at  his  best.  This  is  strong  praise,  but  it  is  deserved.  From  the  moment 
Jack  Hetherington,  the  Cavalier  volunteer,  assumes  the  identity  of  his 
blackguard  cousin,  and  thus  escapes  certain  death  to  face  the  responsibil- 
ity for  his  kinsman's  dark  deeds,  until  the  end,  which  is  sanely  happy,  the 
adventure  never  flags.  This  is  one  of  the  few  historical  novels  in  whose 
favor  an  exception  may  well  be  made  by  those  who  long  since  lost  interest 
in  the  school."  —  New  York  Mail. 


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Mr.  CHARLES  MAJOR'S  NOVELS 

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Dorothy    Vernon   of   Haddon   Hall,     illustrated  by 

Howard   Chandler  Christy 

"  Dorothy  is  a  splendid  creation,  a  superb  creature  of  brains,  beauty,  force, 
capacity,  and  passion,  a  riot  of  energy,  love,  and  red  blood.  She  is  the 
fairest,  fiercest,  strongest,  tenderest  heroine  that  ever  woke  up  a  jaded 
novel  reader  and  made  him  realize  that  life  will  be  worth  living  so  long  as 
the  writers  of  fiction  create  her  like.  .  .  .  The  story  has  brains,  '  go,' 
virility,  gumption,  and  originality."  —  The  Boston  Herald. 

A   Forest   Hearth.     A  Romance  of  Indiana  in  the  Thirties. 

Illustrated 

"This  work  is  a  novel  full  of  charm  and  action,  picturing  the  life  and  love 
of  the  fascinating  indomitably  adventurous  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls, 
who  developed  Indiana.  It  is  a  vigorous,  breezy,  outdoor  book,  with  the 
especial  intimate  touch  that  is  possible  only  when  the  subject  is  one  which 
has  long  lain  close  to  its  author's  heart."  —  Daily  News. 

Yolanda,  Maid  of  Burgundy  Illustrated 

"  Charles  Major  has  done  the  best  work  of  his  life  in  Yolanda.  The 
volume  is  a  genuine  romance  .  .  .  and  after  the  reviewer  has  become  sur- 
feited with  problem  novels,  it  is  like  coming  out  into  the  sunlight  to  read 
the  fresh,  sweet  story  of  her  love  for  Max." —  The   World  To-day. 


Mr.  JOHN  OXENHAM'S  NOVEL 

The   Long   Road  With  frontispiece 

Cloth,  decorated  cover,  $1.50 

"  Not  since  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  has  there  appeared  a  writer  of  English 
who  can  so  thoroughly  serve  his  turn  with  simple  Anglo-Saxon  phrases 
.  .  .  invested  with  sympathetic  interest,  convincing  sincerity,  and  indefin- 
able charm  of  romance."  —  North  American. 

"  It  is  original  both  in  plot  and  in  treatment,  and  its  skilful  mingling  of 
idyllic  beauty  and  tragedy  plays  curious  tricks  with  one's  emotions  .  .  . 
and  leaves  an  impression  of  happiness  and  spiritual  uplift.  It  is  a  story 
that  any  man  or  woman  will  be  the  better  for  reading."  —  Record-Herald, 
Chicago. 


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Mr.  MAURICE  HEWLETT'S  NOVELS 


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The  Forest  Lovers 

"  The  book  is  a  joy  to  read  and  to  remember,  a  source  of  clean  and  pur 
delight  to  the  spiritual  sense,  a  triumph  of  romance  reduced  to  the  esser 
tials,  and  interpreted  with  a  mastery  of  expression  that  is  well-nigh  beyon 
praise." —  The  Dial. 

The  Life  and  Death  of  Richard  Yea-and-Nay 

"  Mr.  Hewlett  has  done  one  of  the  most  notable  things  in  recent  literatun 
a  thing  to  talk  about  with  bated  breath,  as  a  bit  of  master-craftsmanshi 
touched  by  the  splendid  dignity  of  real  creation."  —  The  Interior. 

The  Queen's  Quair 

"  The  Queen's  Quair  is,  from  every  point  of  view,  a  notable  contribution  t 
historical  portraiture  in  its  subtlety,  its  vividness  of  color,  its  consistency,  an 
its  fascination.  .  .  .     Above  all,  it  is  intensely  interesting." —  The  Outlook, 

The  Fool  Errant 

"  It  is  full  of  excellent  description,  of  amusing  characters,  and  of  picaresqu 
adventure  brilliantly  related  .  .  .  with  infinite  humor  and  vivacity."  —  Tk 
New  York  Herald. 

Little  Novels  of  Italy 

"  These  singularly  romantic  stories  are  so  true  to  their  locality  that  the 
read  almost  like  translations."  —  New  York  Times. 

New  Canterbury  Tales 

"  In  the  key  and  style  of  the  author's  Little  Novels  of  Italy,  it  shows  agai 
the  brilliant  qualities  of  that  remarkable  book ;  . .  .  daring  but  successful, 
—  New  York  Tribune. 


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